


Working It Out

by sideris



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 111,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sideris/pseuds/sideris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story started out as a one-off. Chapter 1 (Epiphany) is unaltered and can still be read that way.</p><p>John discovers it's Sherlock's birthday whilst Sherlock makes a series of disturbing discoveries of his own, leading them to embark upon a relationship that was never going to be easy.</p><p> <b>Please note that I have chosen not to use any warnings. The story may contain triggers.</b></p><p>Many thanks to verilyvexed for betaing and to <a href="http://consultingpiskies.tumblr.com/">consultingpiskies.tumblr.com</a> for the cover art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Epiphany

  


  


**  
_December 31_  
**

 

Text: I suppose wishing you a Happy New Year is pointless, yet I do. I am your brother. I care about you. Mummy still hoping you will favour her party with your presence. Dr Watson is also invited. MH.

(DELETE.)

(John isn’t here. He’s at Harry’s place. But Mycroft knows that. This is probably his idea of a joke.)

_____________

**  
_January 1_  
**

 

Text: Happy New Year! U OK? Will be back on 5th. Might be late. Get tea and milk. *Please* J.

(Another four days?) (He doesn’t even like his sister. Why on earth would he want to stay with her for so long?)

(Holidays are hateful. Dull.)

_____________

**  
_January 2_  
**

 

Sherlock awakes suddenly, body flung into a state of high alert, consciousness scrambling to catch up. His heart is pounding, his muscles adrenalin-primed. Low level nausea confirms his initial assessment that this is fear, and yet his mind is focussed on one thing to the exclusion of all else: John Watson. _John._

(Breathe. Think. Observe.)

(It's dark. The air: cold. Winter. Night. No, early morning: the rumble of passing traffic is almost constant. So, early morning. _Too_ early.) Something must have woken him.

(A case? No, there's no case.) He hasn't had one for weeks. (What, then? A noise?) (Has John started having nightmares again? One of those terrible, terror-filled flashbacks that used to tear him, screaming, from sleep and make him pace around upstairs for hours on end, like a mad wife in the attic.)

(No. John's not here; he's at Harry's.) Sherlock's alone and there are no noises, other than the traffic and the odd creak an old building 221 makes whenever the temperature rises or falls.

Therefore, the only plausible explanation is a dream. Sherlock closes his eyes and tries to recall it.

_He’s somewhere dark, most of the light blotted out by an immense black something hanging over him. Bars to his left and bars to his right. Then movement, right on the periphery of his vision, as something - someone? - darts from one shadow to the next. Whatever it is, he knows - beyond reason - that it’s coming for him, and that it’s dangerous, but he isn’t afraid, not this time; he’s got a gun. He turns and takes aim aim. Just at the dark outline takes shape and streaks away, leaving him to fire blindly - pointlessly - into the darkness._

He opens his eyes again, but the dream lingers on, telling him he was late, too late - and that he _failed_. He rips yesterday's nicotine patches from his forearm and slaps on three more.

Feeling the cold now, and too awake and too frustrated to sleep, he throws back the bedclothes and makes his way into the sitting room. There's kindling and coal in the scuttle on the hearth and he sets about building a fire.

The matches he used to use for smoking still come in handy sometimes.

_____________

**  
_January 3_  
**

 

Text: Returning to London tomorrow. Will call on you immediately after lunch. We need to talk. MH.

(DELETE.)

(Note to self: investigate ways of blocking his calls and texts entirely.)

_____________

**  
_January 4_  
**

 

Sherlock takes an early lunch - if a cup of coffee and a tin of baked beans eaten at 11.30 am can be considered lunch - and goes for a walk. A long walk. (London cold and dreary. No crime of interest or merit, merely the prosaic and predictable.) (Oxford Street is a living hell. Sales should be banned.) (Or murder legalized.)

4pm seems like a safe hour to return to Baker Street, but Mrs Hudson greets him in the entrance hallway, her smile far too wide.

“Oh, there you are!” she cries, launching into a flurry of fussing, patting his arms, and straightening his collar. (Her movements nervous, jerky). “Now, Sherlock, don’t get upset-" (Pat. Smoothe. Smile.) "- but your brother is here.”

"He’s what?" (People always describe rage as some kind of violent, red explosion. It’s not. It’s slow, dark and muscular.) “ _Still_? I’ll kill him.”

“Now, now dear. He just wants to ...” The ruffles of her apron flutter in a useless appeal to Sherlock’s better nature.

He strides past.

Mycroft is seated - not quite comfortably, though determinedly - in the steel-framed armchair. (It suits him.) He has one perfectly tailored knee crossed over the other and his Crockett and Jones brogues glint malevolently. He barely turns, just smiles a heavy-lidded smile, like he’s drunk on self-satisfaction, and rubs his fingertips together.

“Good afternoon, and a Happy New Year to you. I trust you and Dr Watson passed a pleasant Christmas.”

The sudden realization that John probably did feels like a needle, dipped in acid. “He wasn’t here - as you very well know.”

Feigning sympathy, and with great ceremony, Mycroft extracts a leather-bound organiser from his pocket and makes a slow show of consulting it. As if he hadn’t committed everything it contains to his photographic memory. (A photographic memory is cheating, but that’s Mycroft for you.) “Ah, yes,” he says, nodding to himself. “He went to his sister’s. His _sister’s_.” The emphasis dangles in the air between them like the feathers of a particularly garish fish lure but it’s too obvious and Sherlock refuses to bite. At length, Mycroft is forced to give it another tempting flick. “The sister of whom he disapproves.”

It’s not a question, but Sherlock finds himself saying “Yes” anyway, then contemplating self-injury as punishment for having been so easily reeled in.

“And I suppose you didn’t think to communicate your desire that he should stay?” Mycroft asks, raising an eyebrow. (It’s dark. Too dark for his colouring.) (He’s been dyeing them.) (His vanity is ludicrous.)

Sherlock allows himself a smile. “You suppose correctly,” he agrees, congratulating himself on his blocking-move. (Mycroft likes people to agree with him. It’s one of his many weaknesses.)

“Might one enquire as to why?” Mycroft persists. He must be short of work, to be pursuing Sherlock so mercilessly. Perhaps his star is on the wane? Sherlock hopes so. (He’d look good in a cardboard box under a railway bridge somewhere.) (Or a wooden one.)

“One might. One did,” Sherlock snaps, snatching up his violin. “It doesn’t mean one’s going to get an answer.” And he scrapes the bow over a particularly unpleasant chord that sets even his own teeth on edge. (John should be here. This would be easier if John were here.) (Why isn’t he here?)

Mycroft smiles. (One of those smiles of his that lie perfectly poised between sympathy and danger.) “Then shall I hazard a guess?”

“No!”

“You didn’t ask him to stay because you fear looking weak. Worse still, you fear rejection. It’s why you always push people away.”

“Spare me the cod psychology.” (Mycroft is like a praying mantis. All pious, thoughtful stillness, then a sudden snap of motion, and he’s eating your brains.)

“And you fear rejection now especially because Dr Watson has acquired a girlfriend.” - Mycroft flicks over a couple of pages in his organizer. - “Sarah Sawyer. A doctor of medicine, like himself, and general practitioner. His immediate superior at the - ah, yes - _Albert Road_ health centre.”

Sherlock scrapes away angrily at his violin, trying to drown Mycroft out but it doesn’t work. It just makes his own nervous tension worse, so he flings it aside in defeat. “Yes, he has a girlfriend. Not that it’s any concern of yours. Or mine.”

Mycroft makes soft tut-tutting noises, and pulls a sympathetic face. “You could try telling him, you know.”

“Telling him _what_?”

Mycroft doesn't explain. Merely shakes his head sadly and sighs. "When will John be returning? Or have you managed to drive him away permanently?”

“He’s due back on the fifth,” Sherlock says, slapping the date down like a winning hand at poker.

But it’s not a win. Mycroft has trumped him again. “The fifth? How very thoughtful of him.”

“What d’you mean?” Sherlock asks, because it’s the only move left to him, even though - this time - he knows exactly what Mycroft means.

“He’s returning the day before your birthday,” Mycroft clarifies, puffing his chest out. (It’s amazing that he doesn’t instantly stand up and start strutting around the living room like a portly cockerel, scratching meaningfully at the carpet.) “Do the two of you have plans?”

“He doesn’t know it’s my birthday, so no. And don’t tell him.”

Mycroft makes a purring noise. “Well, you should at least go out to dinner. Shall I book you a table? For two? The Ivy is very nice.”

“No!”

“Sherlock, really … This is ridiculous."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "It is. Celebrating birthdays is absurd. For anyone older than twelve.”

Mycroft holds his hands up in mock surrender. "All right, Sherlock. You win." (The 'for now' he doesn't say might as well be written in flashing lights, because Mycroft _never_ gives in, and particularly not this easily.) His rises from his seat like a cobra uncoiling. "I'll say no more," he promises (lies), laying a hand heavily on Sherlock shoulder. "But if you should change your mind, call me. Doctor Watson strikes me as a man of appetites. I'm sure he wouldn't say no ... to a free meal."

(And there it is - the more he vowed not to speak.)

"Out!" Sherlock cries. "OUT!"

_____________

**  
_January 5th_  
**

 

Sherlock is _not_ waiting for John. He's not looking out of the window because he expects to see a taxi pulling up, or John arriving on foot. (No limp now. He can walk - run - as far as he wants.) A sudden wave of dizziness overcomes Sherlock and he lets the net curtain fall back into place. In need of distraction, he goes into the kitchen and checks (again) on the tea and milk he bought at John’s bidding. (The price was outrageous.) (Probably.) Sherlock doesn't really know. (Grocery shopping is really more John's area.)

Just after the clock strikes eleven, Mrs Hudson ‘pops in’. Also known as checking up on Sherlock.

Her smile is off: lips pulled into a too-tight curve, the lines between her eyebrows slightly deeper than usual. (She's concerned. Worried, even.) Her eyes dart around what she can see of the flat, and Sherlock follows her gaze. (The place is tidy, isn't it?) His correspondence is neatly knifed down on the mantelpiece, and the last of his raw egg yolk experiment went into the bin first thing this morning. The fridge is empty of all but two pint-bottles of semi-skimmed milk.

"All on your own?" Mrs Hudson sighs, and bites her lip.

"For now," Sherlock replies. "John is coming home today." And for some reason he can't explain, his stomach does a little somersault.

Mrs Hudson's forehead smoothes out and her shoulders relax. "Oh, that's good, dear. Tell him welcome home when he gets here."

And then she disappears back down the stairs, leaving Sherlock alone again. He tries sitting. (Can't.) Tries reading. (Impossible.) Even his long-running experiment on dust accumulation (restricted now to a corner where John won’t see it and complain) fails to engage his attention for long. His brain feels like it's unravelling, the threads getting caught on sudden noises (was that the front door? his phone? a car door?) and pulling apart.

By the time the front door really does open, and Sherlock hears the sound of John's familiar tread (solid, certain and reliable) on the stairs, he's practically crawling the walls with directionless energy.

John can't see him like this. (Why not?) ( _Because_!)

Sherlock flings himself onto the settee, and stretches out, achieving (hopefully) a languid, indifferent pose scant seconds before John walks in, an overstuffed rucksack on his back, and a Tesco bag dangling from one hand.

John shrugs off his rucksack with a groan of relief. "The Tube," he grumbles, "was a bloody nightmare. I could murder a cuppa right now. I bought milk." He raises the carrier bag like an offering.

The lines around his eyes are deeper than before he went away, the shadows beneath them darker. His skin is dry. Hair: unwashed, dishevelled. Lips: chapped. (He will keep licking them.) (Biting them too, when he's anxious.) (His holiday at Harry's doesn't seem to have done him much good: he's tired.) But he's smiling (pleased to be home), and holding out a bag full of groceries (because doing the shopping is what he does _here_ , at _home_ ).

Sherlock gets to his feet again, and takes the bag. "Actually," he sniffs, "there's milk and tea in the kitchen." It may be churlish to mention it, but he wants credit for having made the effort. "I bought some."

"You? _You_ went shopping?" John raises his eyebrows much further than genuine surprise would lift them. (Making a point, then.) Sherlock could swear he's done _some_ shopping since John moved in, but can't seem to call up enough supporting data to argue the point. Not that it matters. John's look of fake surprise has given way to a huge, real smile. (How on earth does his face do that? His mouth goes wide, yet his eyes remain round and enormous.) (His face in general is extraordinary. So mobile, so expressive, so alive.)

John takes off his coat, rolls his shoulders, then rotates his neck (He had to stand on the Tube.) "God, Sherlock, it's good to be home," he says. "Christmas _and_ New Year with Harry was a bit ... Oh! I nearly forgot-" And suddenly he's holding out a hand, clearly expecting Sherlock to take it. "- Happy New Year."

Sherlock hesitates - John never initiates touching, and Sherlock never really means too - but he can't _not_ take John's hand, so he shakes hands the way people (men) do. John's fingers tighten around his. They're warm and strong, and Sherlock find himself squeezing John's hand in return. His throat feels strange. (Flu? No headache, no temperature. A cold? Tonsillitis?) "Happy New Year, John."

But apparently shaking hands isn't enough because John pulls him into a hug, and slaps him on the back in an amiable, manly way. "I must be mad," he chuckles, "but I missed you." For a moment his laughter reverberates through Sherlock's chest, echoing Sherlock's own quickening heartbeat and getting entangled with it. "I mean, Harry does a pretty good job of being impossible and rude, but she's a rank amateur compared with you."

(John's teasing.) (He does that a lot.) The only person in Sherlock's life who does it without malice, or wanting to score points. It's familiar, and comforting, and Sherlock relaxes into John's embrace enough to clap him on the back too. But then, just as quickly, John is letting go again, turning his attention to hanging up his coat (he's obsessively tidy) and Sherlock doesn't know whether to feel relieved or irritated.

"If you’re going to make tea," he says, "I'll have mine black."

_____________

**  
_January 6th_  
**

 

_It's that place again. That shady, shaded place where everything is hidden from view and where he’s boxed in on all sides. The same dark structure hovers menacingly overhead, supported by a web of struts and bars he now see are so fragile that he can't believe it isn’t about to all come crashing down about his ears._

_He should run._

_If only there were more light. Only a few yards away, everything is bathed in brilliant sunlight, but not here. Here, it's cold, and damp, almost black._

_Besides, it's hard to move. The ground is soft and yielding, sucking at his feet, right up to his ankles, and pulling him down._

_Why are his feet bare?_

It’s here; he knows it is. The thing he came for. Any moment now, he’ll see it. His heart beats faster at the thought - but this isn't excitement; it's fear.

_"Sherlock." Someone says his name. No, not someone: John._

_Sherlock sees him now, coalescing out of the shadows, and relief washes over him. He's not alone, after all. John is here._

_But something is wrong. John is getting bigger and more defined with each thudding beat of Sherlock's heart._

_And he's walking towards Sherlock, arms outstretched._

_In one hand, a gun._

Sherlock awakes _knowing_. What it means. What everything means. The data is flying into his consciousness from all directions, too fast, too numerous for him to deny or deflect, each little piece of it slotting into place, like a jigsaw assembling itself. So _this_ is what it's all been about, all these months.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock wishes he hadn't been able to work something out.

 

* * *

 

The smell of coffee (dark, bitter) lures Sherlock from his bed. (Can't hide there forever, after all.) (Not talking for days - forever - is still a possibility.) He snaps on a light and gets dressed (black Spencer Hart trousers, purple D&G shirt, YSL shoes - armour, all of it).

When he enters the kitchen, it's empty. A quick scan of the room finds: full cafetière, two crescents of wholemeal toast standing proud of the slots on one side of the toaster, Flora pro.activ Buttery (health care professional meets guilty glutton) and raspberry jam (organic) out on the table. John will be coming back.

Sherlock pours coffee. Sits down.

A minute later, there's the sound of feet, running up the stairs.

(Act normal.) (Pretend.) (It's the only answer. The only safe thing to do.) Just because Sherlock knows, there's no reason to think John will know he knows. For now, at least, Sherlock has the advantage. (Wait. Watch. Observe.)

"Letter for you," John says as he walks in, holding out a large, white envelope. His eyes are bright. (He's well-rested. At ease.) "Feels like a card."

Mycroft's handwriting. (The devious git.) Sherlock snatches it, and shoves it under a thigh.

John frowns. "Aren't you going to open it?"

"No!" (Too jumpy. Try again. _Lie_.) "It's an invitation. Mycroft's been nagging me to attend one of his gatherings of the great and the good." (Better.) "I've already told him I'm not going." (Perfect.)

John gives a little shrug of the shoulders, and rolls his eyes. (Amused disapproval.) ( _He_ should try having Mycroft for a brother. He'd probably shoot him within a week.) "Got anything on today?" he asks, removing his toast from the toaster.

His tone is casual, his head tipped to one side. He's smiling. (Inviting a response but not expecting anything in particular.) (He doesn't know, hasn't guessed.) Not about Sherlock's birthday, and apparently not about the other thing either.

Sherlock's phone beeps. He flips it open.

Text: Happy Birthday. Card arrive safely? Am taking you to my club for lunch. Will be with you at mid-day. MH.

(Will he _hell_. This is a trick. An excuse for coming in and striking up a conversation with John. So that he can _tell_ him.) (Then there'll be birthday wishes, and hand-shaking, and - oh god - probably hugging too. A stupid, ridiculous fuss. Mycroft suddenly deciding it would be better for me to dine with John instead.)

Sherlock thumbs a curt response.

Text: Will meet you there. 12.30. SH.

(There! Access denied.)

"Mycroft?" John asks, with a nod towards Sherlock's phone.

"How did you guess?" (Are they in on it together?)

John laughs. "I didn't - _guess_ , that is. I observed. Your face."

There's only one way of dealing with this: condescension. A patronizing smile and a drawled "That's very good, John. Really - very good." (Along with a resolution to never let an unguarded expression cross your face ever, ever, again.)

 

* * *

 

The morning crawls by. The fleur de lys wall paper pattern repeats one hundred and nineteen times. Six ambulances on emergency runs wail past. Mrs Hudson leaves the house and comes back again twice, the second errand taking her less that five minutes. John makes two cups of tea, and hovers about, casting Sherlock sidelong glances. Meanwhile Sherlock prays for Lestrade to call constantly.

At half-past eleven, he cracks and switches the television on. _Chick Chat._ (Mindless drivel, but John hates it.) Sure enough, when the loud, whiny one starts pontificating about the state of the NHS, John issues a low growl, and announces he's going to his room to read up on infectious diseases. (Success!)

Sherlock mutes the volume and studies the faces for a moment. The redhead's nails are chewed. (Nervous.) The ditzy one's focus is completely off. (Date, at last?) The dark one's wearing glasses, not contacts. (Late night? No, she's been crying.) No wedding ring today, either. (State of her marriage right there.) The redhead smiles into the camera. (Ad break coming up. 11.45am.) Sherlock switches the power off and puts on his coat and scarf. (Mycroft awaits.)

 

* * *

 

Mycroft's club is exactly as Sherlock expected: quiet, refined, gracious and discreet. Too quiet. The leather soles of Mycroft's shoes squeak on the polished oak flooring, and Sherlock can hear him breathing. Can hear him _thinking_ too.

A flunky in uniform and white gloves ushers them to a table in an alcove by a floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the golf course outside. The table is set with a starched linen table-cloth and heavy silver cutlery, which chinks a little as they take their seats. Mycroft’s Queen Anne chair creaks ( _groans_ ) under his weight.

"I would have been happy to entertain Doctor Watson as well, had you invited him," Mycroft purrs, feigning interest in the menu. (He's been a member of this place for years. Must know the menu off by heart by now.)

Sherlock doesn't answer. He wants to run. (Can't: Mycroft doesn't know he knows.) (Well, yes, he does. Obviously. Mycroft always knows. Everything. And if he doesn't, he knows someone who does.) But Sherlock isn't going to be that person. He's not going to tell Mycroft _anything_. Nor is he going to do anything that might give him away.

They order and food appears. Sherlock can't eat it. He feels sick, anxious, confused. Mycroft cuts daintily at his food, and stuffs his mouth with it. (Why isn't he fatter? He ought to be fat. He was always fat.) When he's not eating, he talks. Sherlock picks through his words, on the look-out for landmines and mantraps. (It's exhausting).

"You're very quiet," Mycroft observes, eventually, over coffee. "Is there something on your mind? Something you'd like to get off your chest?"

"No."

Mycroft looks up. " _Tell_ him, Sherlock."

Sherlock watches the sugar lump (asymmetrical, expensive, brown) darken in the bowl of his teaspoon as coffee wicks into it, shooting up between the crystals with surprising speed. A moment later, it dissolves and falls apart.

"No."

* * *

Sherlock doesn't want to go home, but Mycroft's driver takes him there anyway, and when he gets out of the car (black Jaguar XF 2.2D), he realizes he has no choice but to go inside. He needs to pee. (Badly)

Unfortunately, when he gets up to the flat, he finds the bathroom locked. The shower's running. (John's in there.) (Mid-afternoon? Why?) Sherlock paces the little hallway outside the door uncomfortably. (Should have used the toilets at Mycroft's club. Shouldn't have had coffee on top of wine and water.) (Had to do _something_. Days without work are too long, days in possession of new-found unsettling knowledge worse.)

The need to urinate becomes more urgent. Sherlock hammers on the bathroom door; then again, more loudly, when the whoosh of the shower doesn't stop. "John! How much longer are you going to be?"

"Nearly done!" John calls back, and this time (thank god) the shower is switched off

Sherlock hears John step out of the bath, his tread slightly muffled by the bath-mat. (Fuzzy monstrosity. John insisted they needed it to prevent the risk of slipping on a wet bathroom floor.)

Sherlock paces some more, then stops, hopping from one foot to the other, and gritting his teeth. (Bladder pressure reaching critical now.) "John!" he shouts, desperate. "Hurry up!"

The bathroom door opens and there he is: John Watson, face flushed from the heat of the shower, damp hair clumping into curls, his cheeks freshly shaven. He smells of shampoo and soap, and he's wearing nothing but a soft, thick towel, wrapped about his waist. ( _Oh_.) (Don't think about it. Think about something else.) ( _Is_ there anything else? In the whole universe? Or does it all come down to this: John Watson, pink, wet and half-naked.)

The tension in Sherlock's groin shifts a little. He swallows hard. (This wasn't supposed to happen. The mind is what matters. All the rest is transport. Not looking for anything ...)

"Sorry! Didn't realize you were back," John says brightly. (His eyes are unreasonably deep, his mouth infuriatingly interesting.) "Nice lunch with Mycroft?"

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock snaps, but as he tries to push past, there's a split second when John fails to move out of the way, and for some fraction of it, Sherlock's hand brushes naked skin. (Hell! It's like an electric shock.) (No, it's like _the_ electric shock - the one that nearly killed him.) When Sherlock was a boy, he found ancient, unguarded bar-heater in the attic and, having never seen anything like it before, he plugged in.) This - touching John’s skin - is producing the same terrifying combination of wanting to pull away and not being able to. The same too-strong current, making his muscles contract. (Making them want to hold on.) Mycroft broke the circuit back then and John breaks it now by turning sideways, his back against the door-frame to allow Sherlock through.

Sherlock darts into the bathroom and, as John leaves, bolts the door quickly behind him. As he unzips his flies, he’s unsurprised to find that his hands are shaking.

* * *

By the time Sherlock dares leave the bathroom, John has gone back to his room. (Thank every non-existent deity for that.) If only there were a case, some work, Sherlock wouldn't have to notice the thoughts ricocheting off the inside of his skull, crashing into each other, and making his head ache. He thinks he might even leap at the chance to do some of Mycroft's dreaded leg-work right now, were he offered it. But there's nothing. Just him, and the terrible knowledge that he cares for John. Wants him - in ways he daren't think about; ways that make him feel agitated and powerless.

Sherlock's violin is still in the chair where he left it after Mycroft's last visit to Baker Street. He picks it up and bows a few notes. Playing is about as soothing as it was when Mycroft was here (not at all), but it gives Sherlock something to do, some reason not to bound up the stairs and knock on John's door, and beg him to solve this. Because Sherlock can't. He doesn't know how. (No data. No experience. Just this terrible, empty longing.) (And the sense of being completely ridiculous.)

Sherlock doesn't know how long he plays for. His fingers find a tune, his bow a rhythm - then another and another. Anger, frustration and bitter amusement fuel him for a while, until the truth he's avoiding asserts itself, and his playing turns plaintive, sad.

He’s lost in a world of his own for a while, but as he lets the final sustained B flat fade away, he hears an appreciative sigh and it snaps him right back to the awful, frightening present. (John is in the room.) (He’s been listening.)

"That," John says, "was beautiful."

He’s wearing brown. (A rich, mahogany brown.) A soft, corduroy jacket that hugs his torso and a pair of neatly ironed brown cotton trousers. A crisp white shirt, open at the neck, completes the outfit, its brilliance making John’s skin glow.

Sherlock hates him. “You’re going out," he says, hoping his voice sounds as cold as the knowledge makes him feel.

John smiles. (It hurts, somewhere deep inside.) (John could probably pinpoint the exact location and provide the precise Latin term for it.) “Brilliant deduction," he says. "Yes. I have a date. Well, sort of.” (That hurts more.) (It shouldn’t hurt at all). (Get away. Go out. Leave _him_. Now. See how _he_ likes it.)

(No, smile back, but with an edge of a sneer.) “A date?”

John looks confused, but he smiles again and nods. “Yes?” (He makes it sounds like a question.) (Why is it a question?)

(Oh, hell! This is impossible.) Sherlock's only option is to snort and toss his head, as though dating were the most pathetically dull and uninteresting thing in the world. As if only an idiot would even contemplate it. Is Sherlock turning into an idiot? Has John - have his feelings for John - brought him so low?

He flees to his room without a word, shattered and shamed.

* * *

Sherlock's room is a mess. He doesn't normally care. Doesn't care now either, except that tidying it (a little) gives him something to do. (Papers in a pile _here_ , books in a pile _there_. Laundry in ..? A heap in the corner.) (There! Much better!) (John would approve.)

He turns to the clutter on top of his chest of drawers. (Four ID badges pickpocketed from Lestrade. Half a dozen empty nicotine patch boxes. Three sets of keys and a pair of handcuffs.) ( _Handcuffs_.) Sherlock picks them up and opens one of the bracelets. As he clicks it shut again, an idea snaps into his head - an idea that's so brilliant, he runs out of his room in his eagerness to put it into action.

John is in the living room, slipping his wallet into an inside pocket of his jacket. (He's planning to pick up the bill.) (Sarah earns more than he does - so he wants to impress.) "There you are!" he says, smiling. "At last! Are you-?"

Sherlock slams him into the nearest wall and, as John goes rigid with shock, scrabbles to get a grip on his wrist. (Handcuffing him to something is the only answer. He can't leave if he's shackled to something heavy. What is there here that's heavy? The table? The radiator!)

But John is strong, his self-defence instincts sharp. He yanks his hand away to the side, just as Sherlock gets hold of it, pulling Sherlock off balance, and suddenly the handcuffs aren't in Sherlock's possession any more; they're in John's.

John's nostrils flare. (He's angry.) He spins Sherlock around and shoves him up against the same wall (hard!), arm braced across Sherlock's chest, and dangerously close to his windpipe, to keep him there. (He's _very_ angry.) As he rattles the 'cuffs in Sherlock's face, he only narrowly avoids cracking him across the bridge of the nose with them.

(This is all _wrong_. This was supposed to be about winning, not losing.) Breathing hard, Sherlock struggles to free himself from John's fierce hold (hilariously metaphorical, that) but he can't. John's too strong. Too enraged. (Attempting to use force against him was stupid. He's a _soldier_ , for god's sake!)

"If you don't stand still," John warns, his voice thick with menace, "I'm going to end up hurting you."

"You've hurt me already." (What! Where did _that_ come from? _Why_?)

Luckily, John doesn't understand. "Well, you asked for it. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock is trembling. With frustration, and anger, and despair. He's made an idiot of himself in John's eyes. (Nothing will ever be the same again.) (John will move out.) (He'll _go_.) "Don't ..." The words are like grit, wrapped in cat hairs, and they get stuck in Sherlock's throat. "Don't go."

John blinks. "What?"

"Don't go. Stay."

John is still frowning, but the light in his eyes has softened and the line of his mouth is less severe. (Not quite so angry now - more confused.) He steps back, letting the arm that had Sherlock pinned to the wall drop to his side. "You don't want to go out?"

"No! I don't want _you_ to go out! Don't be stupid, John."

"Hang on! I'm not the one with the handcuffs. Well, I am now, yes, but you were the one trying to put them on people." There's a pause. "What's this all about, Sherlock?"

(Stick to the facts. Fact are solid, consistent and immutable. Viewed correctly, they mean only one thing. Not like feelings.) "You were going out," Sherlock says, carefully. "On a date."

John nods. "Y-e-s." Sherlock can almost hear the wheels grinding round fruitlessly in his head. (What must it be like, being John Watson? Not seeing what's right in front of his nose half the time?) Sherlock should probably be grateful for that. Half of him - the old half, the pre-John Watson half - _is_. The new half hates it. "Or rather," John continues warily, eyes darting over Sherlock's face, "I was hoping it might turn into one. A proper one."

"Still making you sleep on the sofa, is she?" Sherlock scoffs.

John does a double-take. " 'She' ?" (He surely can't be _that_ stupid?)

Sherlock almost spits out her name. "Sarah."

"Sarah?" John's brows pull together. Then suddenly he laughs. Throws back his head and laughs. "No, you idiot. Not a date with Sarah. With _you_. I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That I’d want to take you out. To celebrate your birthday.”

"How-?" (Stupid, _stupid_ question!)

"Your brother. He phoned whilst I was at Harry's. Said he could get us great seats to see _Carmen_ , and that it was one of your favourites. He didn’t tell you?"

"No.” (He wouldn’t. That’s what Mycroft is like.) “Did he offer to pay?"

"Yes. But I said no. If I'm taking you out, _I'm_ paying."

"Covent Garden is expensive, John."

"What can I say? I get paid too much. Besides, the thought of coming home, and us having a night out, was the only thing that kept me sane over the holiday. Honestly, Sherlock - Harry was impossible. She- Sherlock?"

(Why am I not angry? Mycroft did exactly what I told him not to and yet ... ) "A date?" Sherlock hears himself ask. (Brain feels like it's wading through treacle, trying to make sense of a mathematical proof without the slightest idea what the symbols mean.) "Where two people who like each other go out and have fun?"

John smiles. (He lights up the room when he smiles.) "No. The other sort."

"The other sort?"

John steps in closer. "The sort," he says, "where neither of us ends up sleeping on the sofa."

(Neither of us? Of _us_?) (What does he mean? Why did he say that?) Sherlock searches John's face. (Pupils large, dark. Head tilted slightly to one side. Tongue darting out to lick his lips. That double eyelash flutter he does when ...) (Oh!) (No, it _can't_ be. John likes women.) (Doesn't he?) Sherlock's mind is reeling, eleven months of knowing John flashing through his mind like a DVD on x20 rewind - every conversation, every look. (Oh, god.) John wants him. Wants to have sex with him. Has always wanted it. Sherlock's heart jumps at the realization and his legs threaten to give way under him. How has he not realized this before? (Contradictory evidence. Anthea - according to Mycroft - then Sarah ... just about any attractive woman turns John's head. He's never looked at another man the way he looks at women.) (Wrong!) John looks at Sherlock that way all the time. More so. Sherlock's glad his back is still against the wall, even if he is beginning to slide down it.

Meanwhile John is just standing there, looking up at him hopefully and the next thing Sherlock knows, John is rising up onto the balls of his feet, and sliding a hand into the hair at the back of Sherlock's head to pull him closer and press their lips together.

(A kiss.) (Oh, god. A _kiss_.) (How do kisses work? Who does what?) (And what about breathing? Pearl divers regularly hold their breath for up to ten minutes, and the world record for breath-holding is almost twenty but the average human is only capable of two minutes, tops.) Sherlock freezes, completely out of his depth.

John pulls away. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock shrugs, hopelessly. "I don't know, John!"

"You just need to relax," John advises, but Sherlock is far too keyed up now.

"I can't do this, John. I don't know how. I'll disappoint you. Even if the kissing goes well - and how likely is that? - what about the rest of it? Sex, relationships - they're not my area. You'll expect things, and I won't be able to give you them. Won't even know that they are. You'll get angry and hurt. I'll get impatient. Your neediness will annoy me. And when I'm working, I won't notice how you're feeling. I won't even care. You know what I'm like. It'll be impossible. We'll drive each other insane. You'll want to talk, and I'll crave silence. You'll want to cuddle up on the sofa and I'll want to be alone. It's a mistake, John. It'll ruin everything. Better not to start than-"

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"D'you know you said all that out loud?"

"Oh, god." Sherlock tears at his hair. (Why must this be so hellish?) (Why can't John just be happy as he is? Why does he need a relationship - why does he need a _sexual_ relationship - to make him happy? Why can’t things just go on as they are? Why can't he just be a doctor, help out on cases and _not_ go out with Sarah?) "Sorry."

"No, it's fine. At least I know what you're thinking now."

"And it's reasonable, John, isn't it? Totally rational." (Please say that it _is_.)

"It's moronic."

"But-"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

Sherlock snaps his mouth shut, but it's only for a moment, because a moment later, John is kissing him again. Not just a mere press of lips this time, but open-mouthed, his tongue teasing Sherlock's lips until they open too, wet and hot and gloriously awkward. John's tongue is in Sherlock's mouth, and then Sherlock's is in John's, sucked there, being sucked still, sucked and caressed until Sherlock's head is spinning and his skin tingling. Low down in his abdomen, tension is building. (No, not tension: arousal.) Sherlock does his best to suppress it, to control it by sheer force of will, but his body won’t obey him. It wants. And the more he tries to deny it, the more it fights him.

"You're shaking," John breathes against Sherlock's lips.

(At last! A bit of objective observation!) "Yes."

"I can fix that," John says. (Can he?) (Thank god for that. Thank god he's a doctor.)

"Yes!" Sherlock says eagerly, expecting to be offered some kind of tablet, or possibly an injection.

Instead, John steers him across the room to the sofa and sits him down, settling right next to him on the leather cushions. John looks him in the eye, his face serious. "If you want me to stop, just say so, okay?"

(A massage?) "All right."

John smiles, and kisses Sherlock softly, sliding a comforting arm about his shoulder. The warmth and solidity of it is reassuring, and John's kiss so slow and gentle that, to Sherlock's amazement, he finds he can breathe through it perfectly well. (Better, even.) The judders start to subside a little (this must be John's cure) only to start up again (violently), when Sherlock feels John's hand on his thigh, slowly stroking upwards. (There was a beach. It was a hot, sunny day, but under the pier, it was cold and dark, and the tide was coming in. Mummy had had a little drink and fallen asleep sunbathing. Mycroft was engrossed in a book. He didn't hear at first ...) Sherlock twists away from John's mouth. He feels like he's drowning. "Stop!"

Instantly, John stops.

(The man on the beach, _he_ wouldn't stop. He said no-one could see or hear. That no-one would help. His hands were everywhere, places they shouldn't have been.)

Sherlock gasps for breath, fights his way out of John's embrace.

John lets him go without so much as a murmur of protest. "Sherlock ... what is it?" He looks as anxious as Sherlock has ever seen him. (Deep frown lines, pursed lips, rapid eye movements.)

"Nothing." (It _was_ nothing. In the end. Nothing at all. Mycroft looked up from his book and _saw_. He tore down the beach faster than a fat kid should ever have been able to, and the man melted away.) (It was the shame that lasted. The fear and guilt.) (The bloody sense of owing Mycroft of all people.) (And the determination to never be in that position again.) "Nothing," Sherlock says again, more firmly, despite a rising wave of sadness. "Nothing."

Pressing his lips together, John shakes his head. "No, Sherlock. Whatever it is, it isn't 'nothing'. D'you want to tell me about it?"

"It was a long time ago. I should be-"

"Over it?"

"Yes." Sherlock closes his eyes. "It doesn’t make sense to still be-"

"It makes perfect sense. Particularly as I’m willing to bet money you didn’t talk about it at the time, did you?”

(Mycroft wanted to call the police and tell Mummy but she had enough to worry about already.) (There were arguments afterwards - bad ones - for a long, long time.) "No."

"Would you like to talk about it now?"

"No." A pause. Sherlock opens his eyes again, expecting to see hurt, or impatience, on John's face, but all he finds is that smile. That beautiful, room-brightening smile. Sherlock swallows. If there's a single person in the entire solar system, he could bear to have touch him - touch him properly - it's John. "Not yet. Sometime. Maybe." It's the best he can do, for now.

John smiles. "That's good enough for me."

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Depends. Can I kiss you again?"

"D'you still want to?"

"Oh, god, yes."

"What about Sarah?"

"What about Sarah?"

"Well, you have certain ... needs."

"She makes me sleep on the sofa, remember? Not a very promising sign."

Despite himself, Sherlock laughs.

And John laughs too. He takes one of Sherlock's hands in his and pats it. "It's fine, Sherlock," he says. "Really, it is. All of it."

The way he says it, Sherlock can almost believe it. He leans in and tentatively touches John's lips with his own, and it is. (Or it will be.) (Probably.) (Eventually.)

Fine.

All of it.


	2. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a politician's brother goes missing, Sherlock's investigation leads to him discovery something new about himself - as well as a new interrogation technique.

**  
_January 7th_   
**

It's morning. (Properly morning, not merely one of the endless hours after midnight.) The proof lies in the blades of light fanning across Sherlock’s bedroom wall from under the edges of his curtains (they never did fit properly) (ought to complain to Mrs Hudson) which are slowly changing from muted street-lamp orange to glaring, bright grey, as the rumble of traffic down in Baker Street grows more continuous, and the voices of passers-by louder.

Sherlock rubs his eyes. They feel gritty. (Spent the entire night awake, thinking about John, unable to process or forget the sensation of being kissed by him.) He touches his lips. They’re still tingling, still buzzing and he's not sure he likes the feeling: it makes him restless, as if there’s something he’s left undone. But there’s this warmth too, deep inside - a strange kind of contentment. (John's not going to leave.) (John wants to stay.)

(John.)

(Is he still asleep?) (Did he sleep at all, or did he too spend a wakeful, unsettled night, too overwhelmed to be able to relax and let go?) Sherlock throws back his bedding and shivers, momentarily surprised by the cold air, before snatching his dressing gown up from the floor and tying it purposefully about his waist. (It’s too thin.) (There’s no warmth.) (No concealment, either.) (Damnable physiology. What, in god’s name, is the purpose of a morning erection?) Sherlock hurries to the bathroom to deal with it in the speediest and most efficient way he knows how.

Except this morning, it’s different. As his hand moves firmly up and down, his thoughts turn to John and how this is surely one of the things he’d like them to do, and suddenly masturbating is no longer just something physically expedient; it’s something that makes his heart clench, and his throat tighten on something frighteningly like a sob. He tries to push the images away, but now he’s started, he can’t stop; can’t help slowing the pace a little to relish the fantasy that it might be John doing this to him, making him feel this way. (It’s amazing, terrifying, perfect … oh god.) He comes alarmingly easily, with a shudder and a cry, and falls back against the wall, breathing heavily, the image of John’s proud smile vivid behind his closed eyelids.

(This is risible. Shaming.) (Stop it. Stop it now. Get washed and dressed.) (Turn on the shower, at the very least.)

221B’s plumbing is ancient and lumbering, and it always takes a good five minutes before the shower reaches a temperature that is anywhere near bearable on bed-warm, naked skin. (But sexual release - even the utilitarian, solitary kind - is messy and a wash afterwards imperative. The kind that results from a far too detailed fantasy of being wanked off by your flatmate probably requires something much more drastic.) Sherlock casts off his dressing gown and pyjamas and stands under the frigid water. (Yes, a cold shock is exactly what's needed). By the time he climbs out again, his teeth are chattering and his body shaking.

He decides on unsweetened, black coffee for breakfast. Some serious austerity is called for - before his body slips entirely from his control, dragging his mind with it.

He's just pouring out his first cup, when John enters the kitchen. Their eyes meet, and Sherlock catches his breath. (What now? What is John expecting?) To Sherlock's relief, John looks too sleepy to be expecting anything much, but at the same time, that bleary expression and sleep-silly hair have the strangest effect on his ability to think straight. His hands itch with the need to do something. (Flatten.) (Tidy.) (Touch.) The trouble is, he’s not sure what would be appropriate, so he just stands there, stupidly - lost in his own kitchen. (Touching would probably be okay, in the circumstances. Entirely fitting even, in a normal relationship.) (But this isn’t one of those.) (It might never be.) A flutter of panic makes itself known in Sherlock’s belly, in the pulse in his throat. (This nervousness is embarrassing. Debilitating.)

“Morning.” John smiles easily, eyeing the coffee pot. “Did you make enough for me?”

“Yes. Well, I didn’t make it for you-” (This isn't a court of law! John doesn't require the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth! There's no need to be so literal.) (But surely it’s better to be honest from the outset? He can't expect to have his coffee or tea made for him.) “-but-” Sherlock holds the cafetière up higher to judge how full it is. “- there’s at least another mugful in here.”

“Great,” John says, taking it from Sherlock’s hand. Their fingers touch, and a little spark of electric want shoots up Sherlock’s arm. (Which is absurd, because fingers are not an erogenous zone) (Are they?) (It feels like they might be.) He jerks his hand away, but John catches it, his thumb and forefinger a loose circle around Sherlock’s wrist. “It’s okay, Sherlock. Seriously. I’m not going to pounce on you.”

Sherlock swallows. Nods. “Thank you.”

The light in John’s eyes turns mischievous. “Unless you want me to.”

Sherlock’s stomach does a violent somersault. (Do I? Want him to?) (I don’t know.) “That won’t be necessary,” he manages, stepping back.

Some of the sparkle goes out of John’s eyes (he’s disappointed) but he’s still smiling, not turning away. (He's disappointed, but not surprised.) “Just as well,” he says, rubbing his stomach as it gives a little gurgle of hunger. “I’m absolutely bloody starving. Can’t pounce on an empty stomach.”

Sherlock is pretty sure one can. (John is being kind, understanding.) “Thank you,” he says. (Again.)

“You’re welcome.” John moves in closer, and kisses him. Softly, it’s true, - but it’s still a kiss, and not what Sherlock was expecting. (Will there be lots of kisses now? At unpredictable moments? Kisses that are meant to lead to something more?) His heart starts to hammer, even as he finds his mouth opening to John’s. (John is so warm, so solid, so sure about what he’s doing and feeling.) (It would be wonderful to have just a tiny fraction of that emotional certainty.) Sherlock doesn’t even know if he likes kissing. The physical proximity challenges his boundaries, blurs the edges of his very being. If they get any closer, how will he know where he ends and John begins? But at the same time, he wants more (of this?) (yes - but ‘more’ in the sense of something else too) and that wanting makes him unable to simply sink into the comfort of John’s presence and the knowledge that John has feelings for him. (What kind of feelings? Admiration? Affection? Lust? All of the above?). The longer the kiss goes on, the more confused he becomes.

He pulls away, agitated. “I, uh …”

John smiles and touches his cheek. “It’s okay. I know.”

“Do you?” (Does he?) (How can he? He thinks sex is as natural as breathing.) (He thinks relationships are great.) (He’s had hundreds of lovers.) (Probably.) (Wait a minute! _Lovers_? Is that what we are now?) Sherlock’s brain spins in ever faster circles, frantically seeking facts, data, something to hold onto and slow itself down. Without facts, Sherlock is lost, awash in an ocean of infinite, unweighable possibilities.

“Beans,” John says briskly, rubbing his hands together (anticipation) and he smacks his lips as he opens a cupboard and takes down a can (hunger).

Sherlock laughs: John is so marvellously _physical_.

“Something funny?” John asks, looking back over his shoulder as he digs around in a drawer for the can opener.

Sherlock smiles at him, full of a sudden warmth. “You,” he says, then pauses, realizing that’s not quite it. “Me. Us.”

“The odd couple,” John chuckles, putting his beans on to warm just as he does most mornings. and it’s almost as if nothing has changed at all.

* * * * * * * *

**  
_January 13th_   
**

From the outside, the building which houses Mycroft’s office is an unassuming edifice squeezed in between two Palladian mansions on a minor side-street off Whitehall; it’s only when you get inside that you realize this is where the real power really resides. The whole place throbs with it, from the honey marble floors right up to the corniced, chandeliered ceilings.

Ordinarily, Sherlock wouldn’t have responded so readily (or at all) to a text from Mycroft demanding his presence, but today he’s glad of an excuse to leave 221B for while. It’s not a long walk, and the crisp, winter air may even clear his head. It’s been a week, a whole week, since John first kissed him, and Sherlock still isn’t used to it. Still doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. Still surprised every time it happens. And it’s been happening a lot - at least twice a day, sometimes more. And with each successive kiss, John has been growing more hungry and less patient, his mouth rougher, his body harder against Sherlock’s. Under his greatcoat, Sherlock’s skin grows heated, and so uncomfortable he wants to tear it all off: coat, jacket, shirt, skin - everything. His sleeves are like lead weights, pinning his arms, rendering them useless, and the seams of his coat feel like prison walls. A brief image of himself, scratching insanely at a heavy, barred door, springs into his head, but he pushes it out again, and mounts the three shallow steps that lead up to the entrance to William Pitt House with grim determination.

The uniformed security officer in the entrance hallway opens the inner door (bullet proof glass, digital lock) before Sherlock has time to press the intercom button, and allows him in with a smart click of his heels and a deferential nod of the head. Realizing he’s expected, Sherlock bristles slightly (Mycroft presumes too much) but he’s here now. (Walking back out again would be childish.) (And a point to Mycroft.)

Mycroft’s office itself is reached via a labyrinth of tastefully decorated corridors and quietly elegant lifts. Naturally, it is located on the top floor (so predictable, given Mycroft's god complex), though not the largest of the rooms (false modesty). Sherlock goes in without knocking. (Mycroft already holds all the cards. Not going to hand him another whole deck as well.)

“Ah, brother dearest,” Mycroft murmurs, looking up from the vast spread of print-outs he’s poring over. The desk at which he’s seated is new, substantial (perhaps he hopes the sheer size of it will make him appear slim by comparison) - a dark, brown beast of a thing, with claw feet which seems to crouch rather than stand on the carpet, as ready to spring nasty surprises on the unwary as its owner. “How are you?”

“Fine.” (Non-committal is the way to go with Mycroft.) (With everyone.)

Mycroft tips his head to one side, laser-sharp gaze zooming in, despite the deceptively fond smile playing over his lips. “Yes,” he agrees, “You do look rather well.”

(He knows. Damn it all, he knows.) The sweat that was threatening to break out at Sherlock’s armpits retreats. (Any attempt at denial would be pointless now.) (Breathe, relax. There's nothing to be gained from getting worked up.) “Do I?”

“You do, indeed,” Mycroft confirms, rising from his winged chair with a creak of leather and a conspiratorial grin. “I take it things went _well_ on your birthday?”

“We didn’t go to the opera,” Sherlock tells him. The years - decades - of refusing to confide in him have made this kind of obfuscatory dance easy, almost a pleasure.

“Really? Then, pray, how _did_ you entertain yourselves?” Mycroft looks infuriatingly pleased with himself.

(Pleased as Punch.) (He could certainly do with one.) “None. Of. Your. Business.”

Mycroft comes out from behind his desk and walks a slow circle around Sherlock, looking him carefully up and down, issuing the odd cluck of approval. Sherlock obstinately stands his ground. (Any movement now would be an admission. A confession.) At length, Mycroft seems satisfied with his inspection and claps Sherlock amiably on the shoulder. “I’m very happy for you. It’s about time.”

Sherlock allows himself a victorious little smirk. (Mycroft only _thinks_ he knows, after all.)

“Of course,” Mycroft continues languidly, as he returns to his chair, “a kiss is just a kiss. You’ve a way to go yet.” (First blood to Mycroft.)

“Why did you summon me?” Sherlock snaps, desperate to change the subject before Mycroft starts offering advice.

“Ah, yes,” Mycroft nods, as if only just remembering. “There’s a little something I’d like you to look into, rather urgently. It requires more of the dreaded leg work, I’m afraid but that can’t be helped - and besides, you and Doctor Watson do so love to run around together, don’t you, hmm?”

“What little something?” Sherlock demands. (Stick to the point. Ignore the rest.)

“A matter of some delicacy,” Mycroft says, adjusting his tie as he leans back in his chair. “I’d rather not involve the police, and I know I can rely on your discretion. It concerns the brother of a member of the government. It would seem the silly boy has got himself into a spot of bother. I should like you to ascertain his whereabouts.”

“Boy?”

“A turn of phrase, Sherlock, a turn of phrase. David Bartlett is thirty-six, four years younger than his illustrious sister Miranda, who currently occupies a minor position in the Home Office but is tipped for great things. He has not been home since Sunday evening and Ms Bartlett is most anxious for him to return - as am I. Her career has reached a very important point.”

(There’s more to this case than meets the eye: the only career Mycroft has ever had any concern for is his own.) (Of course there’s more than meets the eye: this is _Mycroft_.) “You care about her career?”

“Goodness me, no!” Mycroft looks astonished at the very suggestion. “It is a matter of supreme indifference to me. What matters is the work - which may suffer if she is too emotionally distraught to ensure the passage of a certain bill into law. It could, for instance, delay the introduction of some very necessary special powers.”

(More of his machinations, then.) (Tedious.)

“You see," Mycroft continues, after a brief glance to his left, then right, as if checking that no-one is eavesdropping, "young Bartlett has problems. Problems his sister is endeavouring to help him overcome. I fear she is finding it all quite draining. And now this." Mycroft terminates his explanation with a weary smile, designed to elicit sympathy and cooperation.

Sherlock feels inclined to offer neither. The obvious parallels between David Bartlett's situation and his own are not lost on him; nor, he's sure, does Mycroft intend them to be. (Self-righteous do-gooder that he is.) However, Sherlock manages to sound casually bored (rather than rattled) when he replies, "The man is thirty-six. He's perfectly entitled to come and go as he pleases. Perhaps he simply got fed up with having an overbearing older sibling trying to run his life for him. Thanks all the same, Mycroft, but I’m not interested.”

Mycroft’s smile doesn’t falter, it merely freezes and his eyes narrow fractionally. (It’s his most dangerous expression.) “You have many charms, Sherlock,” he says evenly, “but you also have many, many failings - failings which, for the time being, Doctor Watson has chosen to overlook. But he is - how should I put this? - a 'man of action', and if his need for physical activity is not satisfied in the way he’d most enjoy, it must find fulfilment elsewhere. How long do you think he’d stay at your side if all you did was lie around all day, shooting holes in your walls?” (Advantage Mycroft.)

“He likes _danger_ ,” Sherlock corrects. (Deuce.) “Shooting is dangerous.” (And Advantage Mycroft - because that was the equivalent of poking your tongue out at him.)

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Not when the target is merely masonry. However, if you were to train your weapon on _him_ , I’d imagine he might derive a modicum of satisfaction from it.” To Mycroft’s credit, he doesn’t wink; even so, Sherlock is startled to hear him stoop to the level of dirty postcard humour: it may indicate a willingness (an intention?) to be more explicit, something which Sherlock is determined to avoid. Now, and for the foreseeable future. (But Mycroft won’t give up. He’ll keep prodding, poking and smirking.) (He might even talk to John.) (No!) (That has to be prevented at all costs.) (Might as well accept losing this particular battle and focus on winning the war.)

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

“You’d better start by looking at this.” Mycroft reaches into his breast pocket and extracts a scrap of folded paper. He slides it across the desk. The paper is ruled (cheap) and one of its edges has a ragged little fringe. (Ripped from a spiral-bound notepad.)

Sherlock unfolds it to discover a message, scrawled in sticky blue ink (cheap biro). In several places, the writing has smeared, the streaks going through the words. (Written by someone left-handed.) It reads:

IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE (here a word has been scribbled out. Something short) YOUR BROTHER AGAIN, LEAVE £50K IN USED BANKNOTES AT THE LEFT LUGGAGE OFFICE, ST PANCRAS ON 13TH JANUARY BEFORE 9PM. PUT THE RECEIPT IN A PLAIN ENVELOPE, AND CONCEAL BEHIND ADJACENT DRINKS VENDING MACHINE.

“I’ll tell Ms Bartlett she may call on you later today.” Mycroft says. (It ought to be a question, but it isn’t.) “Thank you, Sherlock. I always said we belong on the same side. And if there’s ever anything I can-”

“There is, actually.”

“Name it.”

“Keep your nose out of my business.”

Something dark crosses Mycroft’s face, but it’s quickly gone, replaced by an ingratiating smile. “As you wish, Sherlock,” he nods. “And for absolutely as long you wish.”

* * * * * *

In the flesh, Miranda Bartlett is neat, well-groomed and charming, with glossy black hair, swept up into a French pleat. She smells of orange blossom, sandalwood and musk, but it's the blast of tuberose that gives her perfume away as Dior's Poison. (A scent generally considered too sensual to wear during working hours.) (Bartlett is obviously not averse to exploiting her femininity, should the need arise.)

John is fawning over her. Offering her tea, coffee, biscuits and - when she politely refuses all three - sherry. (It’ll be his body next.) She’s simpering back at him, encouraging his default flirtiness.

Sherlock grinds his teeth. Bartlett needs him, but right now, he might as well not even be here, for all the attention she or John are paying to him. (It's ludicrous that watching John charm a client should be so paralysing, so undermining.) “Yes, thank you, John,” he cuts in coldly. “Ms Bartlett is a busy woman. I’m sure she wants to get to the point.”

Half-way through inviting Miranda Bartlett to take a seat, John snaps his mouth shut. He takes a step back, away from her. “Yes. Sorry,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

It’s gratifying, Sherlock thinks, watching him retreat to his position as second fiddle, this feeling of control. He hasn’t really had it for weeks now, not since John decided to spend Christmas and New Year with Harry, leaving him to rattle around the flat alone like a pea in a shoebox, waiting for him to come home. And then there was the fear of losing him to Sarah. And the kissing. (Oh god, the kissing.) (How anyone can do that and not lose themselves, at least for a little while?) But now, there's work, a case, and Sherlock exactly who he is, what to do and what John's role is.

He motions for Bartlett to sit. John drops into the seat opposite, and they both look up expectantly. (This is the best bit. When other people are attentive, waiting. Silent.) Sherlock takes the ransom note from his pocket, and thrusts it under Bartlett’s nose. “How did you come by this?” he asks.

John winces slightly. (Why?) (The woman has to be asked. She must have been expecting the question.) (It's the thirteenth today: there’s no time for pussy-footing about just because John - how would he phrase it? - ‘fancies’ her.) (Horrible word.) (Almost as horrible as seeing John doing it.)

“It was on the mat when I returned home from an all-night sitting.”

“No envelope?”

“I threw it away.” (She’s an idiot.) Sherlock gives a growl of impatience, making her start. “It was blank,” she explains, hurriedly. “I didn’t think it was important.”

“Really? You work for the Home Office and you didn’t think evidence important?” (Perhaps a complete disregard for facts will be part of the ‘special measures’ Mycroft is so keen to get through the House.) (A shared contempt for civil - and personal - liberties would be the just kind of thing Mycroft might well bond with a person over.)

John coughs meaningfully. “Um, Sherlock.” Sherlock can hear the warning tone in his voice, see the frantic Not Good signals he’s sending, but he doesn’t care. If anything, John urging him towards greater diplomacy makes him even more irritated by Bartlett’s presence.

An ambulance goes screaming past outside and he crosses dramatically to the window, enjoying the feeling of their eyes tracking him. (Particularly John’s.) (For the first time since Miranda Bartlett breezed into 221B, John’s attention is exactly where it should be.) Sherlock draws the curtain aside and looks down into the street below, not bothering to turn to face Bartlett as he poses his next question. “Are you a wealthy woman, Ms Bartlett?”

Baker Street is busy. (Shoppers. Couriers. Delivery vans. A pair of illicit lovers trying hard not to be recognized as such. Failing entirely: they may not be touching, but they’re in perfect step with each other, their shoulders defensively high, their heads lowered, as if ashamed.)

Not looking directly at Bartlett emphasizes the length of time it takes her to answer (she’s weighing her words, trying to divine what lies behind the question) and the crisp edge to her voice (she wants to define the boundaries of the investigation, to signal the points where criminal investigation becomes trespass). “I’m comfortably off, Mr Holmes." (She’s affronted by the intrusiveness of the question, but determined to see this through.) (Whatever ‘this’ is.) “My finances are a matter of public record, and all my earnings are listed in the Register of Members’ interests.”

Sherlock does turn to look at her now, noting that her posture has changed - she’s more upright - and the social smile has completely vanished.

“What about the rest?" Sherlock presses. "Your inheritance, for example?”

A muscle in her cheek, right next her jaw bone, twitches briefly (always an indicator of stress, that) (must remember to ask John for the technical term) but she takes a deep breath and replies in a calm, steady voice, “My house. I inherited my house. David got the family money.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock says, mostly by way of acknowledgement (clients enjoy the cryptic, mysterious act), but it is. (Very interesting.) (If David Bartlett is the one with the money, any ransomer worth his salt would have kidnapped Miranda, not him.) (Of course, criminals are just as stupid as the law-abiding. It’s very rare to meet one who presents an interesting challenge.) “Tell me about your brother. Does he have any enemies?”

Bartlett sighs and casts a look at John. (Going for sympathy?) John smiles at her, nods. (As if she needed any encouragement!) “Not that I know of. Most people seem to love him.” (‘Seem to’? Is that surprise? Disbelief?) “He’s a people person.” (Present tense. She doesn’t think he’s dead already.) (She has her own theory regarding his disappearance.) “The life and soul of the party.” She smiles (it doesn’t reach her eyes) and exhales with a slight huffing sound. (Despair? Defeat?) Her throat is tight, working around the softly defined column of her trachea. (This line of questioning is touching the root of the ‘problems’ Mycroft mentioned.)

“Likes to socialise, does he?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes.” Bartlett’s voice is very small and she lowers her gaze to the carpet.

“Which means he drinks too much,” Sherlock continues, pressing home his advantage to a sharp intake of breath from John. Sherlock ignores him. “Much too much. Debts too, I bet.”

Bartlett’s head jerks up again, a how-can-you-possibly-know-that light in her eyes. It’s simple (David Bartlett inherited money yet he’s living with his sister?) but Sherlock is pleased all the same. (Bartlett is on the back foot now. Time for a softer, more caring approach.) He pulls the chair out from his desk and sets it down between Bartlett and John. “What does your brother do for a living?” he asks. (Gently. Eyebrows raised, inviting confidence. Leaning forward. Hands pressed together.)

She swallows. “When he left university he had a stint as a financial journalist, but it didn’t work out. After that, he went into sales. A couple of years here, a few months there …”

Sherlock makes a sympathetic noise, deep in his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees John looking at him approvingly. “And when did you last see him?” he asks, with the briefest of encouraging touches to Bartlett's hand.

She opens her handbag. (A Louis Vuitton Brea: expensive.) (Not really on message considering all the recent government talk about the need for belt-tightening. A gift, then.) (Last year’s model, slightly scratched on the bottom and worn at the seams. Well-used. Of sentimental value?) She takes out a packet of tissues and blows her nose. (She’s staving off tears. Excellent! Now, the truth may emerge.) “At home. Before the sitting. He said he was having an early night.”

“So, as far as you know, he went missing from your house?”

“Yes.”

“Were there any signs of a break-in?”

There’s a moment’s hesitation and then she turns wide, slightly bloodshot eyes on Sherlock and shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

(The hesitation may be telling. Time to switch tactics again.) Sherlock stands abruptly, making his chair teeter perilously. “You don’t think so? Is your house generally so untidy that a break-in might go unnoticed?”

“Sherlock,” John says, in a low, warning tone. His expression is helpful, concerned, almost parental. Like a father patiently steering a child through a difficult social situation. Sherlock glowers at him (this is a case, not a party!) but Bartlett is speaking.

“The maid,” she explains, “she’d been cleaning … she’s new ...”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock interrupts, refastening the buttons of his jacket. (Always a useful cue to other people that it’s time for them to leave.) “I’ll need to take a look around. As soon as possible.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I have an important meeting.”

(Brilliant! She won’t be there. John won’t be ogling her, making it impossible to concentrate.)

“Well, that can’t be helped,” Sherlock says briskly. “And I’m sure Doctor Watson and I will be able to manage on our own.” He holds out a hand. “Your keys, if you’d be so kind? Oh, and a photo of your brother too, if you have one.” (Of course she has one. She’s devoted to him.)

She’s looking up at him now, broken and hypnotized. Her hand slips inside her bag again, and takes out a bunch of keys. Without bothering to check them, she places them on Sherlock’s upturned palm, then fumbles through her purse to produce a passport sized colour photograph. “It’s not terribly new,” she says, fingers lingering over the once-glossy surface. “He’s put on a bit of weight, lost a bit of hair.”

(Such instant compliance and helpfulness deserves a reward.) Sherlock gives her a dazzling smile. “Thank you, Ms Bartlett. I’ll be in touch.”

A hint of pink appears on her cheeks (women are so easily flattered, so simply manipulated) but she quickly pulls herself together, and her professional mask back on. “Thank you.”

John is getting to his feet now, hurrying to help her into her coat and muttering assurances that they’ll keep her informed every step of the way, and that he’s sure her brother will be back home very soon. (He’s too close to her. Practically curved around her, following the line of her back.) (Did he just _sniff_ the nape of her neck?)

Sherlock strides over and, forcing John to move back by the simple expedient of getting far too close to him, places a firm hand between Bartlett’s shoulder blades and pushes her towards the door. It’s an enormous relief when, at last, he’s able to shut it behind her.

Right up until the minute he looks at John.

John Watson is a reasonable man: level-headed, intelligent, calm. He’s loyal and admiring, and instinctively on Sherlock’s side ninety-nine percent of the time. It would appear that this is not one of those times. He looks weary, let down in some way.

“What?”

“That poor woman,” John says slowly, emphasizing each word, “is worried sick. It wouldn’t have killed you to be nice to her.”

Irritation prickles under Sherlock’s skin. They’ve had this argument before. (Lots of times.) (How can John _still_ not understand?) “Pah, nice!” he snorts, with a dismissive flip of his hand. “Any fool can be nice. She doesn’t need ‘nice’; she needs someone capable of finding her brother. And to do that, _I_ need to stay clear-sighted.”

“It is possible to do both, you know,” John argues, but his tone is more gentle now. “Doctors - good doctors - do it all the time.”

(This is persuasion.) (It’s not unpleasant.) But Sherlock is not prepared to concede the point. (John _liked_ her.) “You forget that I’m not a doctor, John. I don’t need a bedside manner.” A sudden whiff of Bartlett’s perfume (it must be coming from John, from where he touched her) and the irritation is back. “Besides, you weren’t being nice: you were flirting.”

A little smile starts at the corners of John mouth, and spreads slowly across his face, deepening the lines around his eyes and making them sparkle. (Well, it would, wouldn’t it? That was tantamount to a declaration of jealousy.) (I am not jealous!) (Am I?) “That wasn’t flirting,” John insists, taking Sherlock’s hands and drawing him closer.

Sherlock stiffens, confused. (All the signs were there. The smiling, the touching … oh.) “It wasn’t?” he asks, his own mouth suddenly dry.

John gives a little laugh and shakes his head. “No.” He snakes an arm around Sherlock’s waist, and reaches up to cup his face, thumb brushing lightly over Sherlock’s bottom lip. “ _This_ is flirting.”

And before Sherlock can stop him, before he can protest that he’s working, needs a clear head, before he can issue orders for John to call for a cab, John is kissing him again. (This is inappropriate. Presumptuous!) (There’s work to do.) (Serious, important …) Sherlock’s brain is rapidly losing the battle with his body. John’s hand is on the small of his back, slipping lower. Any minute now, it’ll be on his backside and Sherlock is doing nothing to resist it, just closing his eyes, and letting his limbs go loose. (This - it’s like cannabis, alcohol. The world is drifting further and further away, until there’s nothing but the heat of John’s body, the taste of his tongue, and the desire to rock, and push. To _break_.) But when John grabs both of his buttocks and yanks him nearer, pressing an undeniable erection into Sherlock’s thigh and thrusting his tongue half-way down Sherlock’s throat, groaning with want, Sherlock goes rigid with shock. With real John (as opposed to fantasy bathroom John), there will be too many stages between kissing and falling apart, too much reality. (Negotiations: Your bed or mine? Hands? Mouths? Penetration?) Too many expectations and consequences. Too many questions. (What did it mean? Does it have to mean anything? Will it happen again? How often? Where? What does it _mean_?) It’s too complicated, unfathomable. How is Sherlock supposed to be able to work when his head is swimming with all these unanswerable questions?

He pushes John away. “John, I-”

“Yeah, yeah,” John mutters under his breath, tugging at his trousers in an obvious, if doomed, attempt to make himself more comfortable: his erection is clearly visible, even though his jeans aren't particularly tight. “I get it. Or rather, I don’t. Not today.”

It’s the kind of thing he’d usually say with a wry smile, but at this moment, there’s not a hint of mirth about him. He’s licking his lips rapidly, swallowing, like there’s something he wants to spit out and is only just restraining himself. (It’s aggravating.) (As if he already considers himself entitled to certain things.)

Sherlock decides to say it for him. “I’ve disappointed you.”

John opens his mouth and shuts it again, exhaling a long breath down his nose. “Look, Sherlock-”

“No, no. You’re angry with me. Frustrated.” Sherlock walks away from him and over to his desk. “It’s perfectly understandable, but you can’t say I didn’t warn you. You knew what you were getting into. The work, John - it comes first. It always will.”

A flash of hurt clouds John’s eyes before he quickly blinks it away. “I know.”

The panicked feeling of losing himself whenever John touches him is miles away now, years away. In the past. _This_ is who he really is: Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Aloof, certain, untouchable. “And whilst we’re on the subject of my work,” he adds, opening a drawer and placing the ransom note inside, “ _don’t_ tell me how to do it, John. Now, we need a cab. Order us a cab to Redhill.”

* * * * * *

It's only half-past six when the taxi drops them off outside Miranda Bartlett's Edwardian villa, but already dark. A waning moon beams down at them, haloed by light. (Ring around the moon.) (Refraction from ice crystals in the upper atmosphere). (A storm is coming. Not tonight. But soon.) The evening is a bitingly cold one. Needles of pain sting Sherlock's toes and fingers, and as they scrunch their way up the gravel drive, he half-admires, half-resents John's good sense in wearing a shirt _and_ a thick woolly jumper under his heavy donkey jacket. (He must be warm under all those layers.) (Thermally, at least.) (His manner is unusually cool. He's hardly said a word since Baker Street.) Even so, his breath is coming out in white huffs, an almost tangible reproach to Sherlock for his earlier bad temper and continuing unwillingness to succumb to his advances. (Is an apology in order?) ( _No_.) (For one thing, it would need too many riders and conditions, too many clarifications and definitions of terms.) (For another, John has far too much power as it is.)

Sherlock lengthens his stride, forcing John to break into an amusing half-trot as they approach the house. The place is mostly in darkness, except one room at the far left where a a low-watt light shows through a lowered blind. Outside the front door, there’s a policeman standing guard, red-nosed and watery-eyed. (He's cold. _Really_ cold.) He fumbles with the ID John offers him, and drops it twice (he's been on duty for hours) before his fingers finally achieve a decent grip on it. (The man's nails are blue: poor circulation.) It takes him longer than it should to radio Control (Mycroft should have had all this sorted out) but John just smiles patiently, and nods his understanding.

At long last, they get the clearance they need for Sherlock to ring the doorbell, and a few moments later, they're enveloped in a gust of warm, yeasty air as the door opens to reveal a woman (small, dark) in a blue overall with traces of flour on her hands and face. (Bartlett's cook?) (No, there are smudges of dirt on her knees, and the toes of her shoes are scuffed: she's been down on her hands and knees, scrubbing, today. General domestic, then.) She lets them in and shows them to a room on the ground floor. “Mr David’s,” she announces, standing aside as she opens the door.

Though not a small room, at first glance it seems that way because it's cramped, busy. Too much furniture (mismatched). Chairs: one upholstered, one hard-backed, one plastic, revolving. Pine book cases: shelves crammed with loose-leafed files, A4 publications in anonymous covers, reference tomes. A desk, a computer, an unplugged fax machine, gathering dust (obsolete). And squeezed into the centre of all this, a double bed (one blue pillow case, one white one, pink floral duvet cover) and a mahogany wardrobe. (This is an office, pressed into service as a spare - and very much temporary - bedroom.)

Bartlett's maid is hovering, somewhere on the periphery of Sherlock's vision, shifting from foot to foot, rubbing at the hem of her apron. (She has other things to attend to.) He turns to her and smiles. "Thank you. I think we can manage from here."

She returns his smile gratefully, dips into a half-curtsey and disappears down the long hallway back towards the smell of baking bread.

"What are we looking for?" John asks, glancing about.

"Paper. Pens. Plugs." (Though surely it must be obvious?)

"Okay. Plugs. Right." John takes a breath and gives his sleeves a purposeful shove up his forearms. "Good." He steps further into the room and negotiates his way around a dangerously overflowing laundry basket to peer at the skirting board beyond the bookcase. "Yep. We've got one down here," he reports. "Plugged into the left of two sockets." He looks up and over to the bed. "Both pillows on the left side of the bed. Lamp too. David Bartlett is left-handed."

Sherlock feels a rush of pride, both in John as a student and in himself as teacher. "Very good, John. Anything else?"

John scans the room, but shakes his head. "Not really. He's untidy. Does that help? God, you'd think he'd make an effort, wouldn't you? In his sister's house, I mean."

(It was too much to expect him to really see the room.) (And evidently too much too to hope he'd stop focusing on Miranda Bartlett and concentrate on the case instead.) "Paper, John - paper!" Sherlock snaps in exasperation. "Can you see any?"

"Lots of it," John replies, indicating the shelves. "Looks like a hamster's building a nest!"

" _Writing_ paper," Sherlock clarifies, with a sigh. "There has to be some."

Being a straight-forward, open kind of a man, John starts his hunt on the desk. Sherlock drops down onto his hands and knees and peers under the bed. It's there. (Of course, it is.) (Out of sight but close to hand.) He seizes the spiral notepad and holds it triumphantly aloft.

"The ransom note," John says slowly, pointing. "It was on paper just like that."

"No, not just like it,” Sherlock corrects. “On this very paper." He ploughs through the strata of discarded clothing and abandoned newspapers to hold the notepad up to the light. (There. Indented into the top sheet of paper. IF YOU EVEN WANT TO SEE (scribble) YOUR BROTHER AGAIN... (Etc, etc.)

For a moment John frowns (he's resisting the evidence, doesn't want it to be true), then his eyebrows shoot up and his mouth falls open. (Realization). A black look darkens his face (anger) and he sucks in a breath (outrage). "He faked it? He bloody well faked it? What a shit! Why?" John's cheeks flush red and his breathing quickens. (He doesn't need an answer; he's already worked it out.) "He wanted his sister's money! He's spent all his own on drink and drugs and god knows what, and now he wants hers!"

"Yes."

John punches the nearest thing - the wardrobe door - hard enough to make it shudder. "What a shit," he hisses. (He so angry that needlessly repeating himself doesn’t bother him.) Sherlock experiences a surge of annoyance. (Why?) "That poor, poor woman," John goes on, shaking his head. "She's gone out of her way to help him, despite having a demanding job she has to work at all hours of the day and night - and how does he repay her?"

(Oh, yes. _That's_ why it's annoying: the overblown sympathy for Ms Bartlett.) "Well, she is his sister."

"She's in the Home Office!" John exclaims. "She can't be running around after a brother who makes a mess of his own life, and then tries to do the same to hers-"

Sherlock's annoyance cranks up a gear. (Why should John care so passionately about some politician he met for the first time just three hours ago?) (A politician in a _tight skirt, and too much perfume._ ) (John was attracted to her, even after all that kissing.) (Angry now.) Despite the obstacles in his way - the laundry and newspapers and the mismatched chairs, Sherlock makes it across the room in two seconds flat. In less than half that time, he has John pinned up against the too-full bookcase. "Shut up," he snarls. (This isn't anger; this is fury.)

"Wha-? _What_?"

"Shut. Up."

John shuts up, but he's not acquiescing to Sherlock's will; his expression is mutinous and he's concentrating on freeing himself from the tight, two-handed grip Sherlock still has on his jacket. He pulls to one side, trying to throw Sherlock off-balance, but it's the same tactic he used the last time Sherlock tried to pin him to a wall, and this time, Sherlock's ready for it. He spreads his feet, lowering his centre of gravity, and shifts his weight forward, attacking rather than defending, and once again John's back hits the bookcase with a hard, dull thud.

"Sherlock," John warns, eyes blazing. "Let me go."

"No."

"D'you want me to punch you? Knee you in the nuts? Because honestly, I'm this close. I've had just about enough of you today."

(Enough? What does he mean 'enough'?) (He _doesn’t_ : he means the exact opposite. He hasn't had nearly ‘enough’, so he's looking elsewhere.) All of a sudden, it feels as if a hole has been punched through Sherlock's chest, his heart and lungs ripped out. He can't breathe. (Pathetic! Utterly pathetic!) It doesn’t help that, despite being almost six inches shorter, John is somehow managing to look down on him. (This has to stop.) ( _Now_.) (Show him.)

An icy sense of calm descends on Sherlock. (Focus. Determination.) He drives John up against the bookcase harder, until he's flat against it - head tilted back into the recess of a shelf, throat exposed - and kisses him. Not gently, not hesitantly, not anything like the way he’s imagined it might be the first time _he_ kissed John, but fierce, and brutal. More pain than pleasure. His teeth clash against John's, his stubble scrapes John’s skin, and the urge to bite him - _hurt_ him - is almost irresistible.

John gasps uselessly (his mouth is completely claimed. He won't get the oxygen he needs to fuel his resistance that way, just second-hand breath: carbon dioxide) and he tenses up, but then he's struggling again, twisting and jerking, using every dirty trick the army ever taught him. None of them work. John's mind is too scattered (anger, humiliation, his sense of what's fair, what's right) whereas Sherlock's is intent on one thing, and one thing only: keeping John where he is. (Keeping John). It takes John several minutes to admit defeat, long minutes of Sherlock exerting bruising pressure, but at last he stops fighting and his body stills.

Wary, and anticipating another scuffle, Sherlock pulls back a little, muscles still tight and ready.

John is panting, his face flushed (he's never looked so good) and his eyes smouldering black, all pupil. (What is this? Head trauma? Did he really hit the bookcase that hard?)

"Sherlock-" John is (predictably) breathless but otherwise his voice is normal, reasonable. Gently pleading.

"Shut up," Sherlock says again, cutting him off, then to test the theory rapidly taking shape in his head, he kisses John for a second time, not quite as angrily, but roughly, employing every last thing he remembers John doing to him but pushing each one that little bit further: harder tugs at John's lips, deeper thrusts of his tongue, a bite where John merely nipped. John's mouth opens wider, and he seizes Sherlock's arms tightly. He’s shaking. (The experiment is a success.) (This is _easy_ , unthreatening.) And then Sherlock does something John has never done: he lays his hand over John's flies and, finding a rock-hard erection, starts to squeeze and rub.

Instantly John turns to putty, his breaths coming in harsh little gasps, hips stuttering back and forth between Sherlock’s hand and the bookcase, as he tries but fails to control himself, totally lost. Rubbing harder, Sherlock breaks the kiss so that he can watch John slowly falling to pieces (It's fascinating. Repellent. How can he do that? How can he give in so easily?) and gradually, John’s hold on Sherlock’s arms weakens, and his mouth goes slack. (Any moment now ...)

Suddenly, John seems to realize it too and his eyes fly open in alarm. “Sherlock,” he pants, shaking his head. “We’re … working.” (Admirable control and self-denial.)

“Yes.” Sherlock removes his hand from John’s groin and steps back, prompting a little groan and a wry smile from John. (The self-denial cost him. Is costing him still.) “Thank you for reminding me. I think we’re done here. I have all I need.”

“Lucky you,” John mutters under his breath.

Sherlock pretends not to hear him and heads for their waiting taxi without saying another word, an uncomfortable John very much at heel.

* * * * * *

It’s ten past eight, according to the station clock (mostly reliable, pigeons notwithstanding) but St Pancras is still teeming with people: sharp-elbowed ones in shiny shoes and tailored suits, carrying briefcases and laptops (self-consciously go-getting business types); grey-faced men and women with dull eyes, duller clothing and a shuffling, defeated gait (tired business types); shrieking children running wild; watchful-eyed buskers strumming out-of-tune guitars (on the alert for the police officers who will move them on or slap them with a fine); flocks of women with too much hair and too little clothing (party-goers); packs of youths in ‘street’ (i.e. hideously ill-fitting) clothes, imagining they look good; people trailing cases (business trippers, tourists to London, tourists going abroad). In short, too many people - far too many - and for a moment Sherlock faith in his ability to spot a grasping and guilty younger brother wavers.

“How’re you going to find him amongst this lot?” John asks, putting Sherlock’s misgivings into words. But he doesn’t sound worried. His eyebrows are raised, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips, expectantly. (Not overwhelmed by the task, then - merely curious. Anticipating genius.)

Sherlock’s self-confidence returns in a rush. “Oh, we know where he’ll be.”

“We do?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, just smiles (knowingly). (John likes mystery and magic tricks as much as any client. Even if the magic is really just the result of observation and rational thought, he’s dazzled by it, _impressed_.) “This way.” Sherlock sets off at speed across the lower level concourse (John loves the thrill of the chase, the feel of his blood pumping through his veins), past Pink’s and Bennett’s, Fat Face and Foyle’s, heading for The Circle, and more specifically, Yo Sushi (the only place with both seating and clear view of the Excess Baggage office.) (Bartlett will have been watching and waiting all day. By now, he’ll need a seat.)

At a glance, there are two - no three - men who could be Bartlett. (Can’t look too closely. It would give the game away. Just note their position. Their demeanour.)

“John,” Sherlock hisses, eyes dead ahead. “Swing the bag a little more.”

“Swing it? It’s supposed to have fifty grand in it!” John hisses back.

“Well, drop it, or drag it. Something! Get his attention on it.”

Obligingly (if a little too theatrically), John gives a loud groan, drops the bag to the tiled flooring, and curses.

(Bingo!) The man man at the serving counter, who until now has been sagging on a stool, suddenly sits up straighter. “Got him!”

“What do we do now?” John asks (manfully resisting the urge to take a look at their prey for himself). “Grab him? Call Lestrade?”

“I think my brother would prefer something more discreet.”

“Such as?”

“We tell Bartlett his little scheme has been discovered, threaten him with prison for demanding money with menaces, and send him home for his big sister to deal with - and all in time for her to turn her full attention to getting the bill Mycroft is so keen on through its last reading.”

John’s jaw tightens. “You’re telling me,” he says, through gritted teeth, in that coldly precise way he only ever employs when really angry, “that we’re just going to give him a slap on the wrist and let him go?”

“Yes.”

Watching John fight for self-control, Sherlock is fast discovering, is endlessly amusing (instructive?), whatever the circumstance. It’s the human equivalent of showing the workings in solving a mathematical problem: every step of the way is clearly set out. (Disbelief, betrayal and rage, in this case.) And always being one step ahead of him induces a wonderful sense of power, as though each one of John’s emotions is somehow directed at Sherlock, and his to control.

“And you’re okay with that, are you?” John is asking, his hold on the bag fast turning white-knuckled.

Sherlock shrugs, revelling in his complete lack of interest in either Bartlett or her brother now that the case is solved. “Not my concern. Nor yours. Come on.”

Half-expecting Bartlett to realize what’s happening - that his ruse has been discovered, and he’s about to be caught - Sherlock does a quick one hundred and eighty degree turn and strides up to the counter where the prodigal brother is sitting. Bartlett merely grins at him.

“You brought it, then,” he says. “All of it?” (His words are slightly slurred, his breath sour with alcohol.)

(This bit is going to be fun.) Sherlock pulls an apologetic face. “No, actually. Not quite all of it.”

“How much?”

(Pause for dramatic effect.) “None of it.”

If Bartlett were standing, he’d probably have fallen over, he looks so shocked. As it is, he wobbles a bit on his stool. “You what?”

Sherlock takes the stool next to him, and feigns interest in a menu. (Keeping criminals waiting is one of his favourite things. Puts them firmly in their place.) (The same trick works on non-criminals too.) “We have brought you precisely none of your sister’s money, Mr Bartlett,” he says at last, flashing Bartlett a bright smile.

Bartlett’s alcohol-addled brain works more slowly than most, but eventually it alights on the other relevant feature of Sherlock’s reply. “You … What? I’m not … ”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, you are. You faked your own kidnapping - and rather poorly too. A little tip: if you accidentally put ‘me’ instead of ‘your brother’ on a ransom note, don’t just scribble it out: use a fresh piece of paper. It’s not as if you were using the finest stationery, was it? Oh, and whilst we’re at it, don’t leave the pad you used lying around under your bed where any decent detective - and possibly even an idiot forensics man - would certainly think to look.” Bartlett’s mouth is opening and shutting, with nothing but alcoholic fumes coming out. “Although, to be frank,” Sherlock continues, really enjoying himself now, “it was the ink that gave you away. A left-handed man, such as yourself, should probably invest in a decent pen; the direction of smear is a dead give-away.”

“You worked out it was me, because of my _hand-writing_?”

Sherlock laughs. “Oh, no, Mr Bartlett. That merely confirmed my hypothesis. What gave you away was your exemplary punctuation. These days the Oxford comma is rarely used by anyone not educated at one of the better public schools. Winchester, in your case, wasn’t it?”

“You knew!” John cries. “You knew the entire time!” (John’s inability to suppress involuntary expressions of admiration is one of his most endearing qualities.) Sherlock smiles and gives him a little bow of the head, in acknowledgement - only to discover that John is far from admiring; he’s glaring - eyes wide, nostrils flaring. “You knew, and you never told her. You let her keep worrying. Needlessly. Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

This is a development Sherlock hadn’t foreseen. (John is supposed to provide support, encouragement. Be the appreciative audience.) (Especially now that there’s kissing.) Sherlock glares back. “Telling her before I was absolutely certain would have been cruel. What if I’d been wrong?”

John gives a little snort of disbelief. “You? Wrong? Is that even possible?”

Sherlock is very nearly side-tracked into telling John not to be so stupid, when Bartlett decides to make a run for it. Jumping down from his stool, he dives between a couple of tables and out onto the concourse, Sherlock and John in hot pursuit, the sound of a waiter yelling at Bartlett about his unpaid bill ringing in their ears.

Weaving in and out of the crowd, Bartlett manages to get almost a hundred yards, before Sherlock catches up with him. For a drunk, Bartlett moves with a good deal of speed but sadly (for him), he’s been graced with neither Sherlock’s long legs, nor his slim, athletic build. A lunge, a snatch, and Sherlock has him by the back of his jacket.

Bartlett whirls around, and punches Sherlock hard in the stomach (Stupid, _stupid _! Should have been expecting that!) - a blow that knocks all the air from his lungs and has him doubled him over, gasping. A second punch, to the side of the head, sends him sprawling sideways. Pain - bright, red and metallic - sears his temple. (Red? Metallic?) Scrambling to his feet again, Sherlock sees a crumpled Coke can (must have fallen on it). A second later, he knows he’s bleeding.__

Bartlett is still running, but John is after him - right behind and closing in. All of a sudden, John throws himself through the air, grabbing Bartlett by the shoulder with one hand and the hip with the other, and together they fall to the ground, Bartlett shouting and trying to roll away; John firmly on top, holding him down. When Sherlock catches up with them, John is out of breath but positively glowing with satisfaction. “Got him!”

A crowd has gathered, the younger (male) element laughing and jeering at Bartlett, whilst the young girls (and indeed some of the older women) are surveying John with a mixture of approval and blatant interest. (It’s unsettling.) Sherlock moves in closer, and lays a hand on John’s shoulder. (Mine.) “Yes, thank you, John. Though you seem to have misconstrued the exact meaning of the word ‘discreet’.”

“He was getting away!” John protests. “I had to do something.”

“Apparently."

A couple of uniformed police officers are making their way over. Some of the crowd decide to make themselves scarce, and John’s self-satisfaction starts to wane.

“What now?” he asks, with a sigh.

“Get him up,” Sherlock instructs. “And leave the talking to me. You already have an ASBO. Let’s avoid you getting community service as well.”

The policemen are diligent, but young and new enough to the Met that they have neither met, nor heard of Lestrade. A flash of his ID card, a few words of explanation and an allusion to the Official Secrets Act are all it takes to reassure them that nothing untoward has happened and that, even if it had, the situation is entirely under Detective Inspector Lestrade’s control, despite the blood trickling down one side of his face.

Sherlock wishes them a brisk good evening, and gestures to John to persuade Bartlett to start walking in the opposite direction. However, John’s mind is only half on the job; he keeps looking at Sherlock’s wound with a medically assessing eye. “That doesn’t look good. You might need stitches.”

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing.”

“No, your friend’s right,” Bartlett says, wagging a finger. “You need that cut seeing to.”

(Being patronized by John is one thing; having an incompetent fool like Bartlett try it is quite another.) “Yes, thank you for your input,” Sherlock says, with a sniff. “However, your time and meagre intellectual resources might be better spent on attempting to find a way back into your sister’s good graces. Go home. Apologise. Get help. In short, stop being an idiot.”

_* * * * * *_

The Bartlett case is over and done with, solved. (But solving a case is one moment of victory, followed by days, weeks - months even - of drifting pointlessness and depression. An overwhelming tiredness with the world, with one’s self.) Sherlock stares dully at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering what he is, beyond the work.

Then the door opens behind and John’s face is there too, alongside his own.

“Can I come in?”

“You _are_ in.”

“I just wanted to take a look at that cut.”

“It’s fine.”

John closes the toilet lid. “Sit.” His shoulders are squared, his jaw jutting. (Determination. He’s ready to make an issue of this.)

Sherlock sits, too tired and too lacking in anything better to do to argue. (Let’s just get it over with.)

Smiling down at him, John tips his head back and brushes the hair away from his temple. (Touching. Unselfconscious touching.) (Professional concern or personal entitlement?) Uncertain, Sherlock recoils.

Immediately, John is all apologies. “Sorry! Does it hurt?”

“I’ve had worse.” (Much worse. Worse wounds. Worse touching.) (Though touching always complicates things. Things which ought to be simple.) With a great deal of effort, Sherlock somehow manages to endure John’s gentle probing, the pressure of his fingers, the warmth of his breath as he leans in to get a better view (Too close. Stop crowding me.) but when John turns on a tap to moisten the corner of a towel. and starts trying to clean off the dried blood, Sherlock's instincts kick in and he pushes him away. (Leave me alone.) (Get off.) (Stop!) “I can manage," he says gruffly, trying to recover himself. "Go to bed.”

John drops the towel, but doesn’t move. “What’s the matter?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Yes, there is. You’ve been weird all day.”

“I _am_ weird, John. Surely you’ve noticed that before now.”

“No, weird even for you,” John replies. “You were incredibly rude and insensitive towards Miranda Bartlett-”

(Not her again!) Sherlock gets to his feet. “Boring!”

But John’s hand, planted in the centre of his chest and pushing, sits him down again. “You were incredibly rude and insensitive to _someone in pain_. I’ve never seen you like that before.”

“I have a wide range of fine qualities. Ask anyone.”

“Don’t try to be funny. You were awful to her.”

“Was I? I thought I was rather helpful, all things considered.” (Things like you looking at her, admiring her.) “I found her brother, didn’t I? People don’t come to me for sympathy, John.”

“Just as well.”

“Why do you care? It’s not as if you even know the woman.” (It’s the sex, isn’t it? Or more precisely, the lack of it. You need it, you're not getting it, so you keep looking elsewhere. Just in case.)

Suddenly all John’s censure disappears, and he looks tired. “I felt sorry for her, that’s all. She reminded me of, well, me. Me and Harry.”

“Really?” Sherlock raises an encouraging eyebrow. "How?" (This might be interesting. _Useful_.)

Sighing, John sits down on the rim of the bath. “Growing up with Harry … it was like being invisible most of the time. She always had to have all the attention. When I was a kid, my parents said she’d grow out of it, that I was older than her, and that I had to make allowances … But she didn’t grow out of it, Sherlock; she just got worse and worse. I worked hard, got great grades, passed every exam with flying colours … and no-one noticed. The harder I tried, the _less_ they noticed. They were all too busy trying to keep Harry out of trouble, or rescue her from it. It was like I wasn’t there, not part of the family ….” He stops. Blinks. Takes a deep breath. (His composure is failing. This _hurts_.) “She started drinking the year I went to university; by the time I graduated medical school, she was a full blown alcoholic. She came to the ceremony - did I ever tell you that? She came to the ceremony, drunk. Caused a horrible bloody scene. I was going to get a medal, too - best student in my year. My one day, Sherlock, and she ruined it.” John scrubs at his eyes. “That’s why I felt so sorry for Miranda Bartlett, I suppose. She was doing her best for her brother, despite everything, and I couldn’t bear you being rude to her, acting as if her worrying about him was stupid because …” He stops, shrugs, and gives a hollow, bitter laugh.

“It felt like I was belittling you too?”

John blinks in surprise. “Yeah, I suppose it did.”

(New information.) (Not entirely new, but the nuances, the details.) Sherlock presses his palms together, forefingers against his lips. “I see.” (Do I? What do I see?)

“And then you -” John clears his throat, licks his lips. “- at the Bartlett house, you-” John’s cheeks colour up slightly. (John, blushing? Why?) (He’s not a virgin.) “You-”

“I kissed you?” (Why can’t he just say it?) (There’s more to this, something he's not saying.) (Something he's afraid to say.)

“Yes. Exactly.” John shifts about on the edge of the bath. “And now you can’t bear me touching you. What the hell is going on, Sherlock?”

(This - _this_ \- is why the kissing should never have started. Kissing was never going to be enough.) But strangely, Sherlock feels completely calm. This is John, not some groping pervert: John Watson, who, if one of them has to be hurt, would rather it were him. John Watson, who is happy to be at his side, and at his disposal. He deserves something. Something that Sherlock can give him without losing himself. And then it comes to him. “Stand up.”

“What?”

“Stand up.”

John stands. He’s really quite small and though he may be strong, he’s respectful and self-controlled. He understands the word ‘no’ perfectly well, and responds to it instantly. (There's nothing to be afraid of.) Taking him by the shoulders, Sherlock walks him backwards the four steps it takes to push him up against the wall. The effect is instant: under Sherlock's hands, John's muscles go tense with anticipation, practically vibrating with excitement and there's a look of absolute adoration in his eyes.

“Just a kiss, John,” Sherlock says, lowering his voice to a pitch that brooks no argument - and that clearly has an effect too (the tone? the pitch? the firm edge?) because John shivers and nods.

Kissing, as opposed to being kissed - Sherlock decides - really _is_ much more to his taste. Without the element of surprise, he’s not reflexively on the defensive. This way, he can detach his mind from what’s happening, watch himself and John, and take mental notes. It’s almost like an interrogation; he asks subtle questions with his lips and tongue and hands, and John can’t help but answer in a profoundly honest way. (Do you really want me so badly? _Yes._ ) (Do you want anyone else? _Only in passing, only when I think you'll never …_ ) (What are you prepared to give up? _Everything, if …_ ) (How much will you put up with? _A lot. One hell of a bloody lot. Can't you tell that, you idiot?_ ) (How long will you wait? _Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock! I’m only human._ ) There’s no lying, no dissembling. No playing games or trying to cheat. The clarity is so astonishing, it makes Sherlock dizzy.

When he’s satisfied he knows enough to be going on with, he breaks the kiss, eager for solitude, for time to analyse and think.

John's entire body (except for one, helplessly aroused part of it) has gone limp against the wall. His eyelids are heavy, his (swollen) lips curved into a dazed, drunken smile. He seems to be having some trouble focusing but eventually manages to speak. “ _Just_ a kiss, huh? Really?”

(Trust John to keep trying.) (Trust John to already know his trying is in vain and to be just about okay with that.) “ _Really_ ,” Sherlock insists.

Reluctant, but resigned, John peels himself away from the tiles. He’s grinning. “Whatever that was,” he says, squeezing Sherlock’s arm briefly, “it was definitely _not_ ‘ just a kiss’.”

Sherlock smiles. No, it wasn’t. It was so much more. More than John would ever guess.

It was evidence.


	3. Evidence

**  
_January 14th_   
**

Sherlock is wide awake, the lassitude that normally overcomes him after the successful conclusion of a case completely missing this morning. (Yes, yes - it loomed for a moment last night, but that's not the point.) (The point is that today there is work, and work of a uniquely fascinating nature: John Watson and his inexplicable devotion.) Sherlock supposes he _could_ ask John to explain himself but he doubts he'd discover the truth that way. Suspects, in fact, that John doesn't even understand it himself.

Talking of John, he's ordinarily most considerate flat-mate, and on the days when he has morning surgery, he creeps about so quietly that, on rising, Sherlock is almost surprised to find a rinsed out cup and bowl on the draining board, and John’s coat missing from the rack. Today, however, he’s banging about in the kitchen without a thought for even the neighbours’ rest, let alone Sherlock’s.

Intrigued, Sherlock jumps out of bed to investigate. He's half-way across the living room when suddenly there’s a bang, a crash and a pained cry. (What is it? Has someone broken in? Has John injured himself?) Sherlock crosses the rest of the living room in a couple of long, fast strides and slides the kitchen door open.

John is crouched down in front of the washing machine, stabbing at the buttons with a forefinger, swearing. “Come on, you bastard machine. Bloody start, will you?” Beside him, on the floor, lie the shattered remains of a conical flask - little bits of glass glinting dangerously under the fluorescent light in a pool of cloudy, yellow liquid, with John’s bare feet (soft-skinned, pink-nailed) perilously close by. His calves are bare too. (No pyjamas under that thick cotton dressing gown? It’s too cold to be sleeping naked.)

“John?”

At the sound of Sherlock’s voice, John starts and almost topples over backwards, only just keeping his balance by snatching hold of the washing machine door handle. Unfortunately, the weight of him pulling on it makes it release, and the door swings open. John’s eyes go wide (surprise, horror) and his mouth twists into a grimace (waiting for the inevitable, humiliating fall). Comical though it is, Sherlock lunges forward to catch him, first under one arm, then the other, and pulls him to his feet.

They’re very close. John in nothing but his dressing gown, and Sherlock in his thin, soft pyjamas. Naked toe touches naked toe, and this is almost an embrace (it feels okay), except John looks mortified. Sherlock smiles at him. “All right?”

John grunts. “Can’t get the bloody washing machine to start,” he says, glaring at it.

Sherlock follows his gaze. All the appropriate buttons have been depressed - cotton wash cycle, extra rinse, ninety minutes of drying (anti-crease) - but none of lights have come on. He flicks a look at the socket and laughs. “It’s off at the wall. Honestly, John - what’s happened to your observational skills this morning?”

With a growl (of self-reproach?), John pulls free of Sherlock’s hold and snaps the switch into the ‘On’ position, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “You” under his breath, but it’s swallowed up in a sudden roar of machinery and whoosh of water. “Why is it switched off at the wall?” he demands, picking his way over the broken glass towards the sink. “It’s never switched off at the wall.”

(There was an experiment. It needed electricity ...)

A dustpan and brush in hand now, John eyes the floor warily. “Tell me that’s not acid, or caustic soda in solution.”

“It’s not,” Sherlock confirms. “It’s horse urine. Simpson asked me to check Straker hadn’t been doping his Ascot Chase entry, remember?”

John rolls his eyes. “Bloody hell, Sherlock. Horse urine? In the kitchen? On the kitchen table? What the hell?”

(Not good? Apparently not, judging by John’s face.) “I had to put it somewhere,” Sherlock argues. “It was taking up space on the counter. And anyway, why are you blundering around the kitchen at this ungodly hour?”

“Someone’s got to keep the place tidy,” John says, but for some reason, he won’t meet Sherlock’s eye (anger? embarrassment?). Instead, he darts a glance at the washing machine. The drum is revolving nicely now, and behind the glass door, amidst a cloud of bubbles, a grey sheet does a cartwheel, chased by the blue and white stripes of John’s pyjamas. Sherlock takes another look at John’s face, this time noting a tinge pink on his cheeks and tension in the line of his jaw. ( _Oh_.) (No, surely not! Not a man of John’s age?)

“It wouldn’t kill you to do the washing up once in a while,” John adds, still not making eye contact.

Sherlock nods, not exactly shocked, but definitely taken aback, last night’s kiss replaying in vivid detail in his mind. _(Do you really want me so badly? Yes.) (Do you want anyone else? Only in passing, only when I think you'll never ...) (What are you prepared to give up? Everything, if ...) (How much will you put up with? A lot. One hell of a bloody lot. Can't you tell that, you idiot?) (How long will you wait? Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock! I’m only human.)_ He swallows. “I’ll do it,” he promises. “Later.”

“Right.” John says, nodding too, as if they’ve just made some kind of a bargain. “Good. Well, I’ll just clear this mess up and then have a shower.”

And with that, he beats a hasty (relieved?) retreat, leaving Sherlock to scratch his head in bewilderment.

(Why would _you_ want _me_ , John? Me of all people?)

 

* * * * * * *

 

An hour and a half later, John is about to leave for work and Sherlock is up to his elbows in washing-up water, none the wiser. All he can think, as he scrubs viciously at a particularly limpet-like bit of burnt-on ... (what the hell is that?) _something_ , is that John is either crazy, inordinately keen on foreplay or some kind of a masochist. He clearly wants more than kisses; the evidence is indisputable. Bodies only tremble under tension, and every time they kiss, a little shudder goes through John; every time they pull apart, he groans, or makes some other sound of loss - of protest. And, of course, there’s the amazing speed with which he gets hard.

Not to mention this morning, and the bedsheets.

Sherlock might feel moved to guilt, or sympathy, if he hadn’t made it perfectly plain from the outset that this change in their relationship would be extremely difficult. As it is, he’s just bemused. John wants him. Wants him badly. But _why_? It makes no sense. This may well be the most complicated case he’s ever been presented with. The Curious Case of the Besotted Doctor.

Sherlock grins to himself; John would be so flustered if he knew he was thinking that.

But Sherlock’s train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the flat door opening. He waits to hear it close again, and for all the little noises of John preparing for work come to an end. Instead, he hears talking. (Between John and another man, out on the landing.) Leaving the something-encrusted pan to slip back into the water to soak, Sherlock dries his hands on a tea-towel (a clean one - John’s been tidying up again) and goes to see who it is.

A man (early middle-aged) in the loudest pinstripe suit Sherlock has ever seen (double-stitched hems: expensive) is standing solidly on the threshold, Loake booted feet planted a determined distance apart, hands clutching a plain, brown folder.

“You Holmes?” he asks, without so much as a ‘hello’.

Sherlock doesn’t answer him. Thanks to John’s part-time hours at the health centre, they aren’t exactly living in constant fear of the bailiffs, but it’s always good to know who’s asking first. He turns to John for the answer.

“Um, this is Mr Blackshaw, Sherlock,” John says, indicating the newcomer with a slightly hesitant wave of his hand. “And this, Mr Blackshaw," he adds, his voice suddenly more confident (full of pride), "is Sherlock Holmes.”

Blackshaw seizes this opportunity to claim the scant inch or two available to him beyond the threshold (pushy, overbearing, used to getting his own way) and clasps Sherlock’s hand (without even being offered it). He shakes it vigorously. There are large gold rings on three of his fingers (keen for others to know he’s wealthy) but his palms are sweaty (nervous).

Not bothering to hide an instinctive grimace of distaste, Sherlock tugs his hand free and rubs the tips of his fingers with his thumb as though they were sticky with something nasty (they are), whilst giving the man a curt nod. “Mr Blackshaw.”

“I’ve got a job for you,” Blackshaw declares. There’s no note of supplication in his voice, not the slightest hint of uncertainty about whether his job will be accepted. (This is a man who’s used to buying people. Who believes himself superior in some way.) (Probably in every way.) “Whatever your normal fee is, I’ll pay double.”

(Boring.) “Really?”

“I don’t discuss personal matters in front of tradesmen, Mr Holmes,” Blackshaw says, with a pointed jerk of his head in John’s direction. (Tradesmen?) (Ah! John is wearing his Haversack jacket.) (Blackshaw may be wealthy, but he clearly has no eye for quality if he can’t tell the difference between a shooting and a donkey jacket.) (Nouveau riche.)

Regrettably, John is too good-natured to take offence. “Of course,” he says. “I was leaving for work, anyway. I’ll leave you to it.”

Sherlock catches his arm. “No.” And still holding onto him, he gives Blackshaw a bright smile. “This, Mr Blackshaw, is John Watson - my friend and colleague. Anything you wish to say to me, you may say in front of him. In fact, I insist on it.”

Blackshaw looks dubious. “I’ve never found ‘colleagues’ to be all that trust-worthy, when push comes to shove.”

Sherlock doesn’t doubt it. (The man’s entire manner invites betrayal.) “Nevertheless,” he murmurs, not bothering to finish the sentence. (Its meaning is clear.) “You will stay, won’t you, John?”

John looks at his watch. “Ten minutes. I can manage ten minutes, then I really have to go.”

“There you are, Mr Blackshaw!” Sherlock exclaims. “Doctor Watson can grant you ten precious minutes. Please be brief.”

Blackshaw’s eyes bulge at the injunction, his cheeks turn rapidly red and his fist clench (he looks like he may very well explode with rage), but he somehow manages to vent his anger by huffing dramatically a couple of times. When he’s done, he takes a deep breath and launches into his story. “I’m the victim of a hate campaign, Mr Holmes. Poison pen letters, threatening notes, a couple of burglaries.” He opens the file he’s carrying and from the top of a stack of ten - twenty? - letters take out a photograph. “And now this.” He presses the photograph into Sherlock’s still unpleasantly sweat-dampened hand.

Even though John is looking at the thing upside down, and from around Blackshaw's considerable bulk, he still gasps. A limp-bodied, glassy-eyed cat (very dead) hangs by the neck from a doorknob (brass, polished), garrotted with a thin piece of wire and dripping blood onto a slab of pale grey slab of Portland stone. (Placing it - by statistical probability - somewhere in Greater London.) On the extreme left of the photo, the wire frame of a milk-bottle holder is just visible. (This is a residential doorstep, then.) Red-brick facing around a window, in a wall comprised of darker brick. The pavement beyond the doorstep just visible. (Twickenham?)

“Dreadful,” John murmurs. “Dreadful. What do the police say?”

Blackshaw rolls his eyes, making a dismissive sound, half-way between his throat and his distinctively big nostrils. “Ha! The police!” he cries, ignoring the fact that the question came from John to address his reply to Sherlock. “They reckon there’s not enough evidence to find the culprit, Mr Holmes.” (No evidence from burglaries? Something isn’t right here.) Blackshaw sighs. “They just told me to be on my guard and let them know of ‘any developments’.”

“I take it the letters have been examined for fingerprints?”

“They’re clean, Holmes. Clean as a whistle. He’s a clever one, I’ll tell you that for nothing.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “ ‘He’? You suspect someone?”

“I don’t suspect,” Blackshaw growls. “I _know_. I gave him a job, and this is how he repays me.”

(Ah, so it’s a case of embittered employee versus heartless boss.) (Boring.) (Trying to work John out is much, _much_ more interesting.) Sherlock returns Blackshaw’s photo by slapping it back into his file. (The police will have heard this whole story too and dismissed it.) “I’m afraid employment disputes and personnel matters aren’t really my area, Mr Blackshaw. May I suggest taking the matter to ACAS or a tri-”

“Triple your usual fee,” Blackshaw interrupts.

Sherlock regards him coldly. (It’s not about the money.) (It’s never about the money.) “Good- _bye_ , Mr Blackshaw.”

“You heard me, right?” Blackshaw demands. “I said I’d pay you _three times your usual fee_ and you still don’t want the work?”

“Oddly enough,” Sherlock replies, ushering him towards the still open door, "no. Now, if you’d be so kind, Doctor Watson has a train to catch.”

Apparently too surprised at having his money turned down to mount much resistance, Blackshaw goes, though he does a fair amount of angry muttering as he descends the stairs to the street. Sherlock closes the door emphatically behind him.

“Um, Sherlock?”

Sherlock turns to find John very close, and hovering. “What?”

“Well, one - I’m on my way out too, remember? And two - you don’t have anything else on. Wouldn’t you prefer to have some work? To fend off the boredom?”

“He was appallingly rude to you,” Sherlock says. “Why would I want to help him?”

John looks surprised, then pleased, at the thought that Sherlock might turn down work for such a reason. He grins. “Yeah, he wasn’t very nice was he?”

Sherlock smiles back. “Well, I certainly didn’t like him.”

“You don’t like anyone.”

“Don’t I?” Sherlock takes John by the shoulders. (Look at his mouth for a bit first.) (Make him squirm a little.) (He likes it, really - the build-up, the anticipation.) (He’s already quivering slightly.)

Sure enough, John licks his lips and tilts his face up. “Well …”

He doesn’t seem to know what to say after that, so Sherlock pulls him closer, murmuring, “Let’s look at the evidence, shall we?”

John’s mouth opens but apparently he’s lost the power of speech entirely now, so Sherlock takes advantage of his parted lips to kiss him, running his tongue in teasing darts along the underside of his top lip, until John kisses him back, hard and hungry. Sherlock allows it for a while (John is so inventive, so skilled, and it’s always good to learn from an expert) but when it seems like John might take over, he pulls away.

“Work,” he reminds him. (Helpfully.) “You said you needed to go to work.”

John’s face is a picture, his warring emotions (desire, duty, frustration) plain in every line, every tiny muscle contraction, and seeing him so obviously torn sends an odd tickle of excitement racing over Sherlock’s skin - down his arms, across his abdomen.

“Yeah, “ John sighs, straightening his jacket (unnecessarily.) (He’s trying to compose himself). “I really do. You going to be okay, on your own? With nothing to do?”

“I’ll be fine. Really. I have plenty to occupy me.”

“Seriously?”

Sherlock gives him his best mysterious smile (head tipped to one side, face half-turned away, eyes fluttering closed). “Yes.”

John doesn’t have time to press him on the matter, he knows.

Not that Sherlock wouldn’t tell him, even if he did.

 

* * * * * * *

 

When John returns from the surgery, it’s clear there’s something on his mind; Sherlock can tell even before he lets himself into the flat. John usually bounds up their seventeen steps (unless he’s trying to draw attention to the fact that he’s the one who’s done the shopping), but tonight his footfall is slow and heavy.

From his chair by the fire, Sherlock watches him take off his coat and hang it on the peg behind the door. His mouth is set in a pout (lips pressed together, the corners turned down) and the L-shaped lines at the inner edge of each of his brows are deep, his forehead creased. For a horrible moment, Sherlock wonders if this is because he cut their kiss short before sending John so briskly off to work and John has been brooding about it all day (this could be awkward) (he might want to _talk_ , to renegotiate the terms of this relationship), but when John turns to look at him, it’s with a half-hearted smile. “Bit of a crap day,” he explains, kicking off his shoes, and immediately losing an inch in height. “One of my patients died and -” He sucks in a breath, as though bracing himself. (Bad - worse - news is coming.) “- Judy Fortescue is coming back early from maternity leave.”

“So?”

“Money, Sherlock, money. No more regular work, just filling in when people are off sick, or away on courses. I’ll need to find something else. I don’t suppose Mycroft paid you for the Bartlett job?”

“No.”

With a sigh, John flops down into the other armchair and flicks the TV on. “Shame you didn’t accept Blackshaw’s offer.”

Sherlock doesn’t appreciate the obvious reproach. Nor the slight to his skills, to his _integrity_. “I only take interesting cases, John,” he snaps. “You know that. I’d be wasted on Blackshaw. Any idiot could solve his problem.”

“He didn’t seem to think so.”

“That’s because he’s an idiot too.”

“You think everyone’s an-” John begins, only to stop short as Lestrade’s face suddenly fills the TV screen.

“We’re doing all we can,” he says, solemnly. “We have forensics teams going over the house with a fine tooth comb, and what’s left of the car, and Mrs Blackshaw will be interviewed as soon as she’s conscious. In the meantime, I would urge any members of the public with information which might help us in our investigations to come forward.”

“Mrs Blackshaw?” John gasps, as the screen cuts away to the burnt-out remains of a large estate car (BMW, Series 3?) and Lestrade’s grave tones are replaced by the more upbeat rhythm of the news reader: “Forty-five year old Mrs Blackshaw was rushed to hospital earlier today with second and third degree burns to her hands, legs and face. She has not yet regained consciousness. It is believed the force of the explosion threw her from the car before the vehicle burst into flames.”

Open-mouthed with shock, John switches the television off. “God, Sherlock,” he whispers. “We should have … We might have been able to ... _Oh God_.” Suddenly he’s shaking, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead, hands clawing frantically at the arms of his chair, and he’s struggling to breathe, as if he’s been running for miles. “We’ve got to get him out!” he cries in a voice that Sherlock scarcely recognizes. “I didn’t mean … Quick, hurry before-” His eyes are wide, unseeing, staring at some phantom horror in the distance. (In the _past_.)

(It’s a flashback.) (This has happened before.) Sherlock springs out of his chair, and drops to his knees in front of John. He catches his shaking hands, and squeezes them. “John. John. It’s all right. You’re home. Baker Street. You’re safe.” It doesn’t work. (Time for a more forceful approach.) Sherlock shakes him. “John! Stop it! Look at me!”

His voice (tone?) must have got through this time because John starts, recoiling into his chair so hard his head thumps against the cushioned back behind him. At first he doesn’t seem to know where he is, but at least his eyes are clear and focusing again.

“John,” Sherlock says again. “You’re home. Safe.”

A sad, grateful smile comes to John’s face and, with a great shuddering exhalation, he collapses forward, burying his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. (It feels strange.) (There’s no desire in this, just desperate need.) Sherlock pats him awkwardly on the back. “It’s okay. You’re safe.” Except that now Sherlock wants to kiss him. Kiss him until neither of them feels safe. (And that’s insane.) (Dangerous.) (Oh god, getting hard.) (Inappropriately hard.)

Sherlock swallows. “John …”

“We have to help him, Sherlock,” John says, all huge eyes and raw-edged voice. “We have to.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

Sherlock sits on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone. (Didn’t promise John anything.) (Didn’t say ‘no’ either.) (Again.) (Why is it so hellishly hard to refuse him anything?) (Oh well.)

_Text: Out of your depth with the Blackshaw case? SH_

It’s started raining. Sherlock can hear it rattling against the window.

_Text: Anderson having a field day. Says he’s making excellent progress. Think we’ve got it covered. GL_

Sherlock snorts.

_Text: Anderson? Progress? You need me. SH_

(John looked awful earlier.) (He’s seen more than his fair share of burnt-out cars.) (More than his fair share of burn victims too, I’ll bet.)

_Text: 17 Belmont Gardens, Twickenham. 10am. Don’t piss Anderson off. GL_

Sherlock smiles to himself. (John will be pleased.) (And pissing Anderson off is always fun.)

 

* * * * *

 

**  
_January 15th_   
**

 

The sky over Belmont Gardens - what little Sherlock can see of it, as he and John step down from their taxi - is leaden, threatening more rain. During their short ride a vicious wind has whipped up too, and even now it’s trying to rip off Sherlock’s scarf, his coat, his _hair_. It’s tearing at the blue and white police tape cordoning off the street as well, and battering the sides of the forensics tent erected around Mrs Blackshaw’s car, making them flap wildly. (Thank god for the tent. It means John’s view of the vehicle is blocked.) (For now, at least.) Sherlock sneaks a look at him. He’s being buffeted by the wind too, and every now and then, it slaps his jacket collar hard against his cheek but he makes no move to stop it. (His mind is elsewhere.) (On the grisly events of yesterday.) (And no doubt on countless other ones, thousands of miles from here.) Sherlock turns his own collar up higher.

On the far side of the street, just opposite the forensics tent, there’s a huddle of dark figures in Puffa jackets and heavy coats. (Journalists.) They spring into life as Sherlock and John approach No 17, and suddenly there are cries of “Over here! Over here!” and a battery of flashguns bombarding them with light. (Dear god, it’s like being under fire!) (This is the last thing John needs.) Sherlock turns sharply to look at him, scanning his face for any sign of impending panic, but there aren’t any. John may be walking more stiffly than usual, with his mouth set in a tight, thin line, but his shoulders are back and his eyes determined. (Should have known. He’s made of stern stuff, John Watson. Nerves of steel when they’re needed.)

“Come along, John,” Sherlock says (feeling a surge of pride and just a touch proprietorial). “Let’s find Lestrade.”

Ideally (for John’s sake), Lestrade would have been inside the house; instead, he's inside the forensics tent but John follows Sherlock into it without a moment's hesitation. Despite the wind raging outside, and despite the amount of time that’s elapsed between the extinction of the fire and the erection of the tent, the smoked fish smell of burning is overwhelming. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees John’s eyes squeeze shut for a second, and his lips press together, but almost instantly he’s back to his normal, unflappable self - appalled at the sight before him, but not flinching from it.

And what a sight it is.

The car is little more than a charred skeleton, both front doors blown from their hinges, the frame twisted and distorted by the heat. The windows have gone completely, except for a jagged fringe of broken glass framing the bottom of the rear window, and the tyres have burnt away to nothing, the only sign there were ever there a dark smear on the road.

(It’s a miracle Mrs Blackshaw survived; she certainly wasn’t intended to.)

Anderson, nitrile-gloved and zipped into a white cover-all, is removing fragments of metal and burnt leather from the bottom of what was once the passenger door. Lestrade, Donovan and Blackshaw look on as he places them carefully into bags, before passing them to an assistant for labelling. (The assistant is young, female, shiny of hair and voluptuous of form.)

Donovan is watching her (but trying not to show it, by looking elsewhere every now and then.) When her gaze falls on Sherlock, she does a double-take. “What’s _he_ doing here?” she demands, one hip angled higher than the other, chin jutting. (Hostility.)

“Oh, you know,” Lestrade replies, with a little shrug and a small (placatory) smile. “He needs keeping off the streets.”

“Oh, great,” Anderson groans. “Just who we need. Our favourite psycho- no, our favourite _high-functioning sociopath_.” (Sarcastic self-correction.) (Designed to irritate.)

“Oh, come on,” Lestrade urges. “The more people looking at this the better. It’s not as if we’ve got much to go on. None of the neighbours saw anything.“

(There are a dozen houses in Blackshaw’s terrace. If no-one saw anything suspicious, the most likely explanation is that there wasn’t anything.) (Not anything they’d register as suspicious.) Sherlock approaches the car.

Inside it, the destruction is even more shocking. The steering wheel is little more than a stump, with a gaping hole behind it where the dashboard should be. There’s no gear stick, no clutch, no brake pedal, although the stem of the accelerator is still in place. Meanwhile, all that’s left of the driver’s seat is one blackened spring near where the driver’s side door should be. (The bomb was placed under the driver’s seat). (The intended victim was Mrs Blackshaw herself, not her husband.)

“What’ve you got?” Sherlock asks Lestrade. (Anderson has stripped most of the useful evidence away.)

“Not a lot,” Lestrade replies. “Bit of metal piping, some bits of shotgun cartridge. What looks like some very amateur wiring.”

“You should have called me in earlier,” Sherlock tells him, disappointed. (Anderson will have missed vital clues; he always does.)

“If you remember,” Blackshaw snarls, “I bloody did, but you weren’t interested. Supposedly. What changed? Have time to think about all that lovely money I offered you, did you?” He punctuates the question by curling his top lip and jerking his chin up. (Triumphant contempt.) (A challenge.) (Blackshaw’s body language is all wrong for a man whose significant other is lying unconscious in a burns unit.) (Too much swagger. Too much bluster.)

“On the contrary,” Sherlock replies, voice deliberately controlled, polite. “I make it a rule only to accept interesting cases.”

Blackshaw’s right eye narrows, and his nostrils twitch. (Suspicion.) “Oh, so I’m interesting now, am I?”

“Only as an opportunity for him to show off,” Anderson mutters.

“Very,” Sherlock replies, flashing Blackshaw a quick on-off smile. (Smiles like that annoy people.) (And annoyed people often drop their guard.) “How is your wife?”

The question makes Anderson start (guilt) (that purpling mark on his throat, just visible above his shirt collar must be Donovan’s work then, not Mrs Anderson’s) but Blackshaw reacts as though it were a personal insult, rather than a perfectly civil question. His cheeks puff out, and he practically spits his answer, saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth into little foaming balls. “She’s been fried to a crisp, her Merc has gone up in smoke and she’s at death’s door - how d’you bloody well think she is? I want that bastard arrested! Arrested and charged, d’you hear me?”

Anderson grins nastily at Sherlock (he enjoyed Blackshaw’s outburst) but Lestrade’s mouth twists. (He’s uncomfortable.) (Feeling under pressure.) “We’re doing all we can,” he murmurs. “These things take time.”

“Pah! Time!” Blackshaw explodes. “I’ve told you who did it. All you have to do is round him up.”

“Unfortunately,” Lestrade sighs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “it doesn’t quite work like that.”

“This would be your former employee?” Sherlock asks. “Has he been questioned?”

“None of your business, freak,” Donovan snaps.

“Donovan spoke to him last night,” Lestrade tells Sherlock, ignoring Donovan’s pointed sigh and eye-rolling.

“And doubtless she was very thorough,” Sherlock says, in his best patronizing tone. “Nonetheless …”

Wrinkling his nose, Lestrade shrugs. “Go on, then.” He hands over a piece of paper bearing a name and address: Charles Heathcote-Vane, 16 Trafalgar Court, Redhill. (Not Lestrade’s hand-writing, nor Donovan’s, though it looks familiar). (Blackshaw’s?) “Help yourself. But I’m warning you, Sherlock: no with-holding evidence.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock assures him.

“We were there for nearly two hours last night,” Donovan says, flicking a quick look towards Anderson (for agreement? sympathy?) before folding her arms emphatically across her chest. “He’s not going to learn anything new.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “ ‘We’?”

“Heathcote-Vane said he was happy for us to take a look around,” Donovan says, with a toss of her head. “I called Anderson in.”

“How very _professional_ of you,” Sherlock observes, straight-faced. “And were you down on your knees helping him out this time too?”

Donovan’s jaw drops and Anderson gives a strangled cough, but Lestrade just shakes his head wearily. “And you wonder why people don’t want to work with you,” he sighs. “Relax, you two. I know. I’ve known for ages. Give me some credit; I’m a Detective Inspector, remember?”

Despite this revelation, both Donovan and Anderson look mortified. Meanwhile, John’s mouth is twitching at the corners and he keeps clearing his throat. (He’s trying not to laugh.)

“What do you think, John?” Sherlock asks, suddenly eager to see him lose his battle. (He’s been far too anxious about this case.) (And being able to make him lose control is a pleasure in itself.)

Sure enough, a half-giggle escapes John’s mouth, though he does his best to mask it with a cough, and his shoulders shake a little as he looks away. “I, uh, think Sergeant Donovan was very wise,” he says, nodding sagely. “Very wise. If Mr Blackshaw's employee did plant the bomb, he might have done anything to her if she’d gone alone. And it’s always good to have someone to, uh, cover your back.”

“Oh,” Sherlock purrs, enjoying this immensely, “I’m sure Anderson is very good at back-covering.”

“All right,” Lestrade intervenes, when John succumbs to open laughter. “That’ll do. You two - time you were on your way.”

“Happily,” Sherlock agrees and strides out of the tent, leaving Donovan to accuse him (yet again) of deriving a ghoulish and unnatural pleasure from crime scenes.

John catches up with him, still laughing. “One of these days,” he grins, “They’re going to think up a way of paying you back, you realize, don’t you?”

“Nonsense!” Sherlock scoffs. “They’re too busy shagging each other’s brains out to do much thinking - repulsive though the notion is.”

John laughs again and falls into step at Sherlock’s side. (It’s good to see him laugh.) (Unexpected, too.) (After what he’s just seen. After last night.) (For a straight-forward man, John can be incredibly difficult to predict. To understand.) (Which makes him fascinating.)

“What does she see in him, d’you suppose?” John asks, after a while.

Sherlock casts him a sideways look. “You have a theory. Go on, then.”

John’s response is a self-deprecating laugh and a shake of the head. “No, no. It’s probably complete nonsense. You don’t want to hear it.”

“Oh but I do,” Sherlock insists. “Tell me.”

“Well,” John says slowly, (weighing his argument), “Sergeant Donovan is a good-looking woman. Clever too. It’s pretty unlikely Anderson is her only option …”

(John is a good-looking man. Clever. Kind, funny, brave. He could have other options too.) “So ..?”

“So we have to assume she’s not with him out of desperation,” John goes on. “That, as far as she’s concerned, there’s something about Anderson in particular.”

Sherlock can’t help but snort. “His charm? His face? His intellect?”

“Maybe. Maybe something else. You and I can’t see it, perhaps, but not everybody wants or needs the same thing.”

“Really?” Sherlock murmurs. (Interesting.) (Is it interesting?) (How is it interesting?) (What is John saying?) (That his wants - needs - are different from other people’s?)

John looks uncertain now. “You don’t agree?”

(I have no idea, John. That’s why I asked.) (Time to change the subject.) “I think we should stop thinking about Anderson’s sex life,” Sherlock smiles, “before it puts you off your lunch.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

Heathcote-Vane is a well-spoken, smartly dressed man in his late fifties. His tweed jacket is starting to fray at the cuffs, and the sleeves shiny are at the elbows. Two of the three buttons have been replaced. (That kind of wear? Five years old, at least.) However, his pale blue shirt is impeccably clean and ironed. (Not a rich man, but one who likes to be well turned-out.) Of average build, he’s just under six feet tall, with silver-grey temples and a neatly trimmed moustache. On the third finger of his left hand, there’s a slim, gold band. (Married.) His walk is slightly stiff. (The beginning of arthritis, most likely of the left knee.) Even so, he holds himself very straight when standing, shoulders back, feet at attention. (Military. No, _ex_ -military). His colouring is fair and his eyes blue, but his skin is deeply bronzed, with no sign of burning. (A tan acquired over many months, years - not weeks.) (Long tours of duty in hot countries.) As he and John settle into armchairs in the sitting room, Sherlock wonders if John realizes how much the two of them have in common.

Heathcote-Vane accedes to Sherlock's request to take a look around the house and garden without a word of protest or a single question, declaring himself more than willing to provide whatever help he can to anyone the police care to send. He talks of Mrs Blackshaw with respect but his posture grows tense at mention of her husband (he was on good terms with the former, but not the latter) and when Sherlock begins to mount the stairs, he makes no move to direct or supervise him. (He’s either very sure any incriminating evidence has been cleared away, or he genuinely has nothing to hide.)

Apart from books and the odd photograph, the stairs and hallway are without ornamentation. In the master bedroom, a framed photo of Heathcote-Vane alongside a fair-haired, green-eyed woman hangs over the bed. Judging by the cut of Healthcote-Vane’s trousers (tight) and the woman’s necklace (large, plastic beads), it was taken some time in the early 80s. There are no women’s clothes in the wardrobe, none in the chest-of-drawers, but on one of the bookshelves, Sherlock discovers a photograph album - pictures of Heathcote-Vane and the woman, taken over the course of a decade, the later ones including a golden-haired little boy with Heathcote-Vane’s bright blue eyes. By the time the little boy is in school uniform, there are no more pictures of the woman. (Not married, then.) (Not divorced either. Heathcote-Vane is still wearing his wedding ring.) (He’s a widower.)

The door to the second bedroom is firmly closed, but not locked. This room is plainer still. No photographs, no signs of use at all. However, the wardrobe houses an adult-sized football kit, a pair of football boots and a set of bike leathers.

Something like a lump rises in Sherlock’s throat. The details are different, but this house is horribly familiar nonetheless. When Mycroft left home permanently, three stones lighter than he was at his heaviest, his room felt all the more empty for the 18-inch collar shirts hanging, unwanted, in his wardrobe.

All the photos of Father were packed into boxes, then left to gather dust in the attic ...

All of a sudden, Sherlock is struck by how cold Heathcote-Vane’s house is, particularly here, upstairs. He closes the spare bedroom door and runs swiftly back down the stairs only to feel a little jolt of surprise (disappointment?) on finding the living room empty. (Where has John gone?) The sound of voices alerts him to the presence of a second door (half-open). (John and Heathcote-Vane have repaired to another room. The kitchen?) (For tea? Coffee?) Craving warmth quite badly now, Sherlock crosses the room to join them, but stops half-way when he catches a snatch of conversation.

“Medical Corps,” John is saying.

A low murmur from Heathcote-Vane, then, “Tough job.”

“Yes, it could be. Yes.”

Sherlock pictures John nodding, outwardly composed, but blinking far more than usual. (Something he does when his emotions get too much for him.) “But not like being on the front line.” And now there’s that brisk tone, the one he uses to make light of the things he’s been through. Sherlock detects a slight smile in his voice too (inviting Heathcote-Vane to regale him with tales of derring-do). (John is modest to a fault.)

“Nonsense!” Heathcote-Vane retorts. “It’s all balls and adrenalin when you’re in the thick of it. No need to think. No _time_. Action all the way. Always thought _you_ chaps were the real heroes, tidying up afterwards. Patching us back together again. Saving lives.”

“Not always,” John says, quietly. (Too quietly.)

A little stretch of silence follows and, during it, Sherlock crosses another yard of floor, stopping once more when Heathcote-Vane resumes talking. “How long’ve you been back?”

“Almost eighteen months.”

“And how’re you adjusting?”

“Oh, you know …”

Heathcote-Vane gives a sympathetic laugh. “I most certainly do. I mean, look at this place. Falling apart around my ears. When I was in army housing, didn’t have to so much as change a light-bulb myself. Takes some getting used to, fending for yourself again, doesn’t it? And so much has changed.”

“Chip and pin machines,” John laughs. “The bane of my life.”

“Civilian life can be dreadfully lonely too, can’t it?” Heathcote-Vane continues. “Bet you miss the camaraderie, a young fellow like you. Not so easy to make friends like that on civvy street, is it? Not ones you’d trust with your life. Look at you: you were injured and your men risked their own skins to get you back to safety. How many civilians would do that?”

“Well-”

“And then there was the sense of purpose. Always knew what you were doing in the Army. Maybe not always _why_ , but you knew it was important. But you’re lucky in that regard, at least. You have a worthwhile career. You’re a police surgeon now, right?”

“No. I have a part-time job as a GP.”

“Oh. I thought the other fellow was your boss?”

“No. He just acts that way.”

“Ah. Still, nice to have someone else making the decisions, eh? Taking charge. Once you're used to Army discipline, the chain of command is rather a comfort, isn't it?”

John doesn’t answer. (Why doesn’t he answer?) (Loyalty? Tact?)

"Now, it's all down to me." Heathcote-Vane sighs heavily. "I've got all these bills to pay, repairs that need professionals, phone calls to make. Worse still, I have to _remember_ it all. Sometimes it makes me with I was back out there - bombs and bullets and all - with my old RSM yelling at me, telling me what to do. Know what I mean?"

Sherlock doesn't like this talk of bullets and bombs. (Especially of bombs.) (Not when it might send John into another flashback.) He takes the final three steps he needs to reach the kitchen door and pushes it open just as John gives a little chuckle and answers, “Actually, now you mention it, Sherlock is bit like a-”

The kettle (white, Argos value range) reaches boiling point just as Sherlock steps into the room. It switches itself off with a loud click.

Sherlock glances at John, wondering if he’s had enough of the talk of bombs too, and is surprised to find him looking like he wishes the floor would swallow him whole. (Why?) (For what he just said?) (He’s said far worse.) (Openly too.)

(Oh!) (It's not implied insult that's worrying him; it's the _comparison_!)

“Ah, Mr Holmes,” Heathcote-Vane exclaims, noticing Sherlock's arrival. “Cup of tea?”

“Thank you,” Sherlock nods, taking a seat at the table, as he accepts a cup and saucer. (The seat directly opposite John.) (The perfect position from which to watch him, and study his reactions.) He stirs a teaspoon full of sugar into his tea and smiles sweetly at John. “Tell me about your RSM. I’ve never heard you mention him before.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

They leave Heathcote-Vane’s at around half-three. It’s already getting dark. The wind has died down a bit but it’s raining again. Sherlock huddles deeper into his coat, but John practically marches up Heathcote-Vane’s path towards the waiting taxi, back straight, arms swinging determinedly and head held high, a satisfied smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“It wasn’t him,” he says. (Almost crows). “He didn’t do it.”

“You sound very sure,” Sherlock returns (bitterly). At this precise moment, he’s feeling less than charitable towards John. Partly because of his ready acceptance of Heathcote-Vane’s invitation to call in ‘at any time’ but mostly because of the deft way he turned Sherlock's question about his Army past into an excuse to encourage Heathcote-Vane to talk about _his_. Sherlock isn’t used to being outmanoeuvred during the course of an investigation. It grates. Being outmanoeuvred by _John_ is doubly intolerable and it shakes Sherlock’s confidence in himself as a good judge of character. (Until now, John has always seemed almost painfully honest, not practised at evasion.) (Then again, perhaps all truly honest people _are_?)

“I sound sure because I _am_ sure,” John replies, cheerfully. He opens the taxi door and hops in.

Sherlock gets in beside him. Fastens his seat-belt with a snap. “Baker Street,” he tells the driver, then turns on John. “How do you know he's innocent?”

“Oh, come on!” John says, spreading his hands. (Pleading.) “You met him. He’s a nice bloke. A _good_ bloke."

“He’s an ex-soldier,” Sherlock replies, coolly. “Which means not only is he trained to kill; he’s had practice at it.”

“But he couldn’t find work when he got back,” John replies. “He was on benefits for months. Until Blackshaw gave him a job. He was grateful to him. Still is.”

Sherlock allows himself a knowing smile. “There’s a Lebanese proverb: ‘Beware of the man to whom you have done a good turn’. People don’t like being grateful, John.”

John’s fists clench. (He’s agitated now. Can feel his argument failing.) “He _likes_ Mrs Blackshaw,” he protests, trying another tack. “He’s really cut up about what happened to her.”

“Ha!” Sherlock tosses his head. “The oldest story in the world: liked the wife, didn’t like the husband. Planned to remove the latter from the scene, but it went wrong, and she got hurt instead.”

John’s smile gives way to a frown, and his eyes dart about Sherlock’s face. (Doubt.) “You think he did it? Seriously?”

(The opportunity to draw this out, to take some of the shine off John’s obvious admiration for Heathcote-Vane, is far too tempting to resist.) “The evidence is certainly pointing that way,” Sherlock murmurs, tapping his gloved fingertips together. “And if we take Blackshaw’s testimony into account-”

“No,” John gasps, shaking his head. “I don’t believe it. Heathcote-Vane was mentioned in despatches. _Twice_.”

Sherlock lets him sag despondently for a couple of seconds before saying brightly, “Of course he didn’t do it. Where’s the motive?”

John blinks. “Uh, Mrs Blackshaw?” he offers.

“Heathcote-Vane is devoted to his dead wife,” Sherlock replies. “You didn’t notice his ring? Honestly, John!”

John falls silent, confused.

And Sherlock pounces. “Did you sleep with him?”

“What?” John twists in his seat, staring at Sherlock in shocked disbelief. “Heathcote-Vane? I’ve only just met him!”

(More evasion.) (He’s good at this.) Sherlock gives him a cold smile. “Your RSM.”

John’s face, already pink-tinged by the chilly weather, turns pinker still. He swallows (hard) and raises his chin (defiantly). “We didn’t have an RSM.”

(He’s seeking refuge in semantics now?) Sherlock experiences the familiar thrill of discovery. (This is a clue, and a good one.) “Your _warrant officer_ , then?” he amends, not bothering to try hiding his sense of triumph.

For a moment, John looks panicked. Then he takes a couple of deep breaths and says firmly, “No. No, I didn’t.”

“Perhaps I should clarify,” Sherlock persists (because John Watson is proving to be a weasel when it comes to interrogation). “Did you have sex with him?”

Settling back more comfortably on their shared seat, John places his hand over Sherlock’s and squeezes it, smiling. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” he says, with a barely suppressed chuckle.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffs. (Because I’m not.) (Jealous? Me?)

“So, you think Heathcote-Vane is innocent too?” John asks (looking infuriatingly innocent himself, considering he’s just deflected yet another question quite masterfully).

(Okay. Let him think he’s got away with it.) (Whatever ‘it’ is.) (He _hasn’t_ , though. Not by a long chalk.) Sherlock forces his thoughts back to the Blackshaw case and sighs. “I hate to say it, but it looks like Anderson was right.”

“What do we do now?”

“We go home,” Sherlock says. “And pray that something more interesting turns up tomorrow.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

**  
_January 16th_   
**

 

Last night, Sherlock was resolved to have nothing more to do with the Blackshaw case (hateful man has something hateful done to him: boring!) but this morning, his instincts tell him there’s something else going on. Not being instantly able to pinpoint it is in equal parts irksome and compelling. (Much like the mystery that is John Watson.)

He finds John at the dining room table, typing away on his computer. (There were no kisses last night.) (Why?) (Has John lost patience already?) The possibility is less welcome than, even just a few short weeks ago, Sherlock would ever have believed and he walks over to stand behind John (because the way he reacts to physical closeness is reassuring). Sherlock has just enough time to read _I’d never felt more wretched in my life than when he turned and saw me. When, for a split second, he thought I might be his enemy_ before John snaps the lid shut, grumbling, “Do you have to?”

A strange storm of emotion whirls through not just Sherlock’s mind, but his body too - his chest, his heart - because John’s right: for a moment, he really did think John might in reality be Moriarty. He’s ashamed of it now, ashamed and embarrassed because his suspicion wasn’t based on evidence or even any reasonable theory, just fear. (Fear of having been wrong about John. Of having been foolish to trust him.) (And then … ) Even now, it’s too difficult to talk about, so Sherlock doesn’t, opting instead to pull on his coat and scarf. “Flattered though I am by your constant efforts to immortalize me, your time would be much better occupied elsewhere. Coming?”

“Coming where?” John asks, but he’s already pushing his chair away from the table and getting to his feet.

“The Richmond and Twickenham Gazette. Local newspapers, John - a fount of tittle-tattle and trivial information.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

Lestrade’s ID yet again works its magic, and within the hour, Sherlock and John have been granted (free) access to the Gazette’s archive, and are hunting through a decade’s worth of news stories. Or rather, John is. He gallantly agreed to feed the list of search terms Sherlock came up with in the taxi on the way into the paper’s database, whilst Sherlock plucks down box-files of newsprint at random. For fifteen minutes, they work in near-silence, the only sound being John scratching off words from Sherlock’s list with a biro, and giving the odd sigh of disappointment (when, presumably, a promising lead fails to result in anything interesting).

Sherlock’s attention keeps wandering (John is far better at this methodical kind of work), and he finds himself either gazing out of the window, or at the back of John’s neck. (The hair there is a little longer than usual, and every half inch or so, it’s clumping into the beginnings of a curl.) (There’s another incipient curl resting against his cheek too.) (Not very military.) (He hasn’t shaved today either.) Sherlock tries to imagine what that growth of stubble would feel like against his cheek, under his lips. (Why were there no kisses last night?) (Would kissing now be appropriate?) Sherlock hesitates, unsure.

“Uh, Sherlock,” John says, tapping the screen in front of him. “I think I’ve found something.”

Sherlock recognizes Blackshaw's face; the photo was taken a few years ago, when Blackshaw was slightly less heavy-jowled and his hair darker. He leans in closer to read the accompanying text, placing a hand on John’s shoulder to steady himself.

It’s as though he’d jabbed John with a cattle prod. The contact makes him jump, though he tries to cover the intensity of his reaction with a cough and a wry little laugh. “Didn’t realize you were so close,” he says.

(Perhaps kissing now would be fine?) “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Sherlock says. “If you’d rather-” He lifts his hand. (Experimentally.)

“No, no,” John says, “it’s fine.”

“Good.” Sherlock nods, allowing his hand to settle once more on John’s shoulder. (Slowly. Lightly at first, then with more pressure.) “Now, what does it say?”

“There was an accident,” John says. “Five years ago. Listen.” He starts reading. “An inquest into the head-on collision on the A3 in the early hours of August 13th which killed local man Richard Heathcote-Vane (26) and seriously injured Spanish HGV driver Miguel Hernez (32) has concluded that the accident was caused - ” There’s an almost-hitch in the rhythm of his reading when Sherlock slides his hand further forward over his shoulder, so that the tip of his forefinger is resting on John’s collarbone, but he carries on manfully. “- by a brake failure. Mr Heathcote-Vane’s employer, Twickenham-based businessman Bradley Blackshaw (43), strenuously denied suggestions that his company’s fleet of delivery vehicles was not properly maintained.”

Sherlock allows the tips of his other fingers to drift a small distance over the smooth cotton of John’s shirt. (Another experiment.) This time John actually has to stop reading altogether. (This is amusing. Powerful.) (Pleasant.) “Go on,” Sherlock urges.

“Mr Blackshaw supplied the coroner with up-to-date service records for fifteen vehicles but was unable to find any documents relating to the Ford Transit in which Heathcote-Vane died. Mr Blackshaw revealed that there had been a burglary at his premises a week previously and that several items were stolen. Mr Heathcote-Vane was unmarried and had no children. He is survived by his father, Charles Heathcote-Vane (53).” John leans back in his chair. “Damn it, Sherlock, if you want a motive, that’s pretty strong one.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nods. (It _is_ a strong motive.) (But not as strong as the urge to brush a thumb up the back of John neck.) (And under the line of his hair, up to the little hollow behind his earlobe.)

John’s breath catches and his head tips back. “Sherlock ...”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says (lies), stilling his hand. “You have a patch of dried soap …” (It’s not true of course.) (It was the first plausible excuse that came to mind.) “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No,” John begins, only to think better of it. “Not ‘uncomfortable’ … well, not like that … “ He breaks off, with a little groan.

Sherlock hides a smile. “I’m sure it will come off easily enough,” he says, rubbing a small circle over the imaginary soap stain as John sits stiffly in his chair, scarcely breathing. The tension in his neck is so visible, that Sherlock doesn’t really need to touch the straining tendon, but he does -

\- and almost instantly finds his wrist captured, as John swivels his chair around and stands up. The sensation is not wholly unpleasant, but it sends a jolt of fear up Sherlock’s spine. “Let go.”

For the first time since they started this (this thing that John claims to want so very badly), John looks angry. Not merely frustrated, or disappointed, or weary, but angry. “You’re allowed to touch me - torment me - but I’m not allowed to touch you?” he demands, very much not letting go.

Sherlock’s heart is beating faster, knocking against the confines of his ribcage. He takes a deep breath, forcing it to slow down. “You _want_ me to touch you,” he points out. The words sound colder and harder than he intended.

“I want it to be mutual, you idiot,” John hisses back, darting a glance towards the glass panelled door. “Because - god, Sherlock! - I want to touch you so bloody much, it hurts.”

(He’s telling the truth. It’s there in every tense line on his face, in the tight pull of the muscles in his neck, the tendons at his wrist.) (Would it be so very difficult?) Sherlock shakes his head. “No.”

For a moment, John just stares at him, then he blinks rapidly and runs a hand through his hair. “We should get back to work,” he sighs, relinquishing his hold. “What now?”

(Oh, god - his face.) (His face, his self-control, his kindness.) (Those eyes. That mouth. That ridiculously responsive body.)

Sherlock leans in. “This,” he says, taking John’s face between his hands and kissing him softly. “Thank you.” (That little growth of stubble feels far better than it should. Than it has any right to.)

“You’re impossible,” John says, with a weak smile. "Utterly impossible. D'you know what it's like, constantly having to wait for you to make the first move?"

(Ah, so _that's_ why there were no kisses last night: John was waiting for permission. Permission he didn't get.)

"Not to mention,” John goes on, “having to keep myself in check the whole time we're kissing. Have you got any idea how that feels?”

Sherlock considers. Remembers all the sharp little noises John makes, the way his body shudders. "Painful?"

"Yes."

"If you'd rather-"

"No," John interrupts, hurriedly. " _No_. I just want you to know it's not easy. I’m not always going to get it right.”

(He’s so earnest, it’s rather touching.) “I expect I’ll manage to forgive you,” Sherlock smiles. “Eventually.”

It’s supposed to be a tender moment (John surely wants tender moments?) but instead of his eyes crinkling with affection, they fly wide open and dart about Sherlock’s face, searchingly. There’s something strange in them (surprise? disbelief? hope? fear?) but it’s gone too quickly for Sherlock to identify. Whatever it was, it’s not something John wants to talk about; that much is clear from the speed with which he sits back down, and turns his back to resume his search through the Gazette’s database.

Sherlock watches him for a while, trying to read something from the concentrated curve of his spine, the rapid movement of his fingers over the keys (how does this mesh with his unwillingness to discuss his Army past?), but it seems John is determined to give nothing away.

Which, naturally, only makes Sherlock even _more_ determined to find out why.

 

* * * * * * *

 

**  
_January 18th_   
**

 

Delightful though it is to lounge on the settee, surreptitiously watching John jig about the kitchen with a plastic fish slice in hand as he cooks himself breakfast (and that part really is delightful, despite his lamentable taste in music) (the combination of bouncing and swaying draws attention to the narrowness of his hips, and to how snugly his jeans follow the curve of his lower back), it’s a pleasure (pleasure? looking at John’s body is a _pleasure_?) Sherlock will have to forego today. He snaps his laptop shut and gets to his feet. If he leaves now, he should arrive in Twickenham at the same time as Lestrade, if not before.

Buttoning up his coat and looping his scarf about his neck, he pauses at the kitchen doorway to look in. “ _Two_ eggs, John?” he comments, eyeing the frying pan. “ _Four_ rashers of bacon?” (The received wisdom that sexual frustration leads to over-eating appears to be true - in John’s case, at least.)

“I’m making breakfast for you too,” John grins, then he notices the coat and scarf and his grin fades. “What happened? Did Lestrade call?”

To Sherlock’s way of thinking, Lestrade’s failure to make his mobile completely unhackable is tantamount to an _invitation_ to keep track of his texts and calls, but he doubts John will see it that way. “There was a message,” he tells him (truthfully). (A message from Donovan to Lestrade, but a message, nonetheless.) “An ambulance has been called to Blackshaw’s house.”

The fish slice falls from John’s hand. (Shock.) “Is he ... hurt?”

“Very possibly. I’m on my way there now.”

John turns the gas off. “I’ll get my coat.”

Sherlock is surprised to find himself torn. Until now, he’s always welcomed John’s presence and frank admiration when he’s working (and he’s a real asset when things turn dangerous), but (but what?) … “There’s no need,” he says. “I can manage perfectly well-”

John pushes past him. “I know you can-” He retrieves his jacket from the back of the chair he left it on last night and pulls it on. “- but I’m coming with you.”

Warmth floods Sherlock’s body. (Pride, gratitude, and an almost irresistible urge to hug John.) “Is there anything I can say to stop you?”

“Nope.”

(The urge to hug him is overwhelming now.) Sherlock stops trying to fight it, and, as John goes to open the front door, he catches him by the elbow and reels him in for a kiss. He means it to be quick, a thank you, but when their lips meet, John presses the whole length of his body against him, and before Sherlock knows what he’s doing, he’s got one hand in John’s hair and the other on his hip, drawing him closer still. One kiss isn’t enough. Kissing John is like drinking after days of being parched: it's wet and perfect. And with every kiss Sherlock realizes how thirsty he was before. How thirsty he still is. He doesn't want to stop, doesn't even seem able to, and he kisses John again and again, pushing his tongue further into his mouth each time, crushing their lips together harder, until the pleasure of it starts to edge into pain.

It’s John who finally pulls away. “Nice try,” he smiles. “But I’m still coming with you.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

At night, the on-off flash of emergency vehicle lights can be incongruously beautiful, even thrilling - turning window panes into a kaleidoscope of blue crystals and ordinary haircuts into bright halos; but in daylight - even on a grey winter’s morning (especially on a grey winter’s morning) - the effect is invariably sordid and dismal.

This morning, it doesn’t help that the ambulance has a dent in the side (near-side front wheel arch) or that the car Lestrade and Donovan are leaping out of is in dire need of a wash. (A build-up of road salt.)

“Sherlock.” Lestrade says slowly on seeing him, as if trying to remember whether he actually called him or not. (Which means he thought about it.) Donovan doesn’t look pleased, but she doesn’t say anything: her attention is all on the house. (Something has happened, something serious.)

Lestrade and Donovan lead the way in, with Sherlock and John close behind. A pair of double doors leading into an expensively furnished sitting room (Persian rug, Parker Knoll Elmsworth settees, Tiffany floor lamp) stands open and, beyond them, two men in green uniforms (paramedics) are kneeling on the floor, beside a motionless figure. (A body.) Meanwhile a woman’s voice is gently insisting to someone else in the room, “You need to go to hospital, sir. You can talk to the police when you’ve received proper medical attention.”

“Get your hands off me! I’m not going anywhere until I’ve made a statement!”

It’s Blackshaw - loud, angry and implacable. (Not the tone you’d expect from someone in need of hospital treatment.) And yet, when they enter his living room, it’s clear he does. He has a gash down one cheek (straight, shallow) and the front of his white shirt front is in tatters, soaked with blood.

He spots Sherlock immediately, and his face goes as red as his shirt. “Get him out!” he bellows, pointing. “I don’t want him here! I told him, but oh no, Sherlock bloody Holmes wouldn’t listen. It’s too late now. Get. OUT!”

“Stay,” Lestrade countermands in a undertone. “Just … keep back, for now.”

Sherlock nods. Scans the room. Notes the shotgun, as clean and polished as the sanded-and-sealed pine flooring it’s lying on. The still lingering whiff of a spent cartridge hanging in the air. The gunshot wound in the centre of Heathcote-Vane’s chest. The stillness of his body. The knife (twenty centimetres long, a Henckels chef’s) clutched in his hand. The overturned chair. The blood beneath it. The round splashes of blood elsewhere on the floor.

“Now, sir,” Lestrade says, in that admirably calm, unthreatening voice of his, “if you could just tell us what happened?”

Blackshaw breaks off from glowering at Sherlock, fists clenched, to look down at Heathcote-Vane. “He attacked me, that’s what happened. With a knife.”

“What was he doing here?” Donovan asks. (Good question.)

Blackshaw’s eyes flick towards the phone on a table near the window. (Like the room’s décor, it’s cream. Stained with blood.) “One of my drivers let me down,” he says. “I needed a quick replacement.”

Lestrade nods. “So you invited Mr Heathcote-Vane to do the job? And where is the vehicle now, sir?” (Another good question.)

“The vehicle?” Blackshaw echoes, beginning to pace. “I get stabbed and you want to know where the vehicle is?” He takes a deep breath and composes himself. “It’s at the depot. The van is at the depot. He came here for the keys.”

“Normally keep the keys at home, do you?” Donovan asks, taking notes.

Blackshaw opens his mouth, shuts it again and shrugs. “Sometimes. The holidays. You know.” (Holidays? The holidays were three weeks ago.)

“Go on, Mr Blackshaw,” Lestrade urges. “Mr Heathcote-Vane came here to collect the vans keys and then what?”

“I invited him in. It was cold.” Blackshaw looks down at the body, then away again. “And suddenly he went for me.”

“Did he say anything, before he attacked you?”

“He accused me of killing his son!” Blackshaw thunders.

At Sherlock’s side, John sucks in a breath. (He believes Blackshaw.)

“I see.” Lestrade presses his lips together thoughtfully. “And you hadn’t realized he had a knife up until that point?”

“I … no … Look, I’m bleeding. It was all a blur.”

“Of course,” Lestrade murmurs (in his best sympathetic tone). “So, he came at you with the knife, and you ..?” He breaks off, inviting Blackshaw to continue the story.

“He stabbed me. Kept stabbing me. I tried to fight him off-”

“There was a struggle?” Donovan asks, pencil poised about her pad.

Sherlock does his best not to snort in disbelief. (Of course there wasn’t a struggle! Look at the evidence!)

“D’you think I’d just lie down and take it?” Blackshaw cries. “Being attacked in my own home? I don’t care what the PC crowd say, an Englishman’s home is his castle. I got my gun and I shot him.”

Sherlock feels John wince. (He’s emotionally involved with this.) (Not good.)

“And where was your shotgun?” Lestrade asks.

“In the hall. Ever since what happened to Maureen …” Blackshaw buries his face in his hands (in a show of misery, not the real thing) and sinks into an armchair.

Instantly, the female paramedic is at his side, checking his pulse. “Mr Blackshaw needs to go to hospital,” she says. “Now.”

Lestrade turns to Sherlock. “D’you want to ask anything? Before he goes?”

Sherlock is about to say ‘no’ (the blood stains prove there was no struggle: Blackshaw’s wounds were self-inflicted) (no-one stands still when they’re being attacked) (and a Henckels knife like the one in Heathcote-Vane’s grip retails at seventy pounds whereas the cutlery in his kitchen was all the cheap Ikea variety), when another piece of evidence occurs to him. “Would you mind rolling up your shirt sleeves, Mr Blackshaw?”

Blackshaw’s head jerks up. One look at his face, contorted with anger, and Sherlock knows he’s in trouble. (It was stupid to ask for evidence the hospital would have provided anyway - _stupid_!)

With a roar, Blackshaw erupts from his chair, sending the paramedic attending him tumbling backwards. Lunging forwards, he snatches the knife up from Heathcote-Vane’s dead hand, and lashes out at Sherlock with it, stabbing, thrusting, and howling with rage. Sherlock ducks to one side, out of the way of the blade, but Blackshaw is fast and follows. Sherlock dodges again (left, instead of right, damn it) (Blackshaw is right-handed!) and this time the point of the blade cuts a nick into the lapel of his coat.

Around them Lestrade, Donovan and one of the medics have sprung into action, and are doing their best to seize Blackshaw, but he rounds on each one of them as they approach, brandishing the knife and uttering all kinds of blood-curdling threats.

And then John (brave, stupid John) throws himself between Sherlock and Blackshaw and makes a grab for the knife. Time stops, speeds up and Sherlock’s powers of logical, systematic observation desert him. He sees, but nothing makes sense. The blade flashes, there’s a spray of blood. Another flash, another spray. John cries out. Two dark shapes hurl themselves into the fray. A growl, a grunt and then three bodies go crashing to the floor.

For a minute the only sounds are of harsh breathing and the thump of limbs being pinned to the ground.

Sherlock is awash with adrenalin. It’s burning through his veins, making his heart hammer. “John! John!”

John is still on his feet, just standing and staring down at his upturned palms in bewilderment. They’re bleeding. Both of them. His fingers too.

“John!” Sherlock dashes over to him, and cups his wounded hands in his own. (Can’t look at the cuts without flinching.) “Are you all right?”

John sniffs and wrinkles his nose. “I think so."

(He _thinks_ so? He doesn't _know_?)

Taking no chances, Sherlock steers him to a chair and sits him down. A paramedic is beside them instantly and Sherlock gratefully (no, this isn’t gratefully - this is _unwillingly_ ) steps back to let him work. Swabs, gel and plastic stitches, followed by cotton padding and yards of gauze swirl across Sherlock’s vision for what seems like ages until, at last, everything is still again.

It’s a surprise to feel Lestrade’s hand on his shoulder. “Take the ambulance,” he’s saying. “We’ll take Blackshaw in the Vectra and if he bleeds to death on the way …” He gives Sherlock a sympathetic smile. "I'll give you a call later."

“I’m not going to hospital,” John says. “I’m fine. Seriously. These guys have done a great job. Nothing more a hospital can do. I just want to go home.”

Sherlock turns to the paramedics, uncertain.

“Well, the cuts _are_ only superficial,” the paramedic who did the bandaging says. “Painful, but superficial. It’s just a case of keeping the bandages on for forty-eight hours. All the same-”

"I want to go home," John repeats. "Please, Sherlock."

(It's a reasonable enough request.) (But ...) “What if there's a problem?"

"There won't be," John insists. "And it's a well-known fact that patients recover much better at home." (Is it?) "Besides - you'll be around, if I need anything, won't you?" He's smiling hopefully.

"Fine," Sherlock grunts, conceding defeat. "But I am _not_ spending all day running around after you, okay?"

John grins. "As if I'd expect you to!"

 

* * * * * * *

 

At four, Lestrade phones.

"Thought you might like to know Anderson found traces of nitroglycerin and shot-gun cartridges in Mrs Blackshaw's car," he says. "The cartridges are a match for Blackshaw's shotgun, but he's denying all knowledge."

"And the nitroglycerin?"

"Donovan's been checking his business out. Part of it is chemicals distribution. Not saying there's a definite link yet, but I reckon we're going to have enough to charge him with the attempted murder of his wife."

"He had another woman? Massive debts, and Mrs Blackshaw was well insured?"

"Both," Lestrade replies, and Sherlock can almost hear him shaking his head in dismay at such sordid, petty motivation.

"What about Heathcote-Vane?"

At the other end of the phone, Lestrade sucks his teeth. "So far, it's looking like self-defence. We know that Heathcote-Vane had good reason to hold Blackshaw responsible for the death of his son."

Sherlock can hardly believe his ears. "You really think he attacked Blackshaw?"

"You were there," Lestrade argues. "You saw the state Blackshaw was in."

"That's what makes me sure Heathcote-Vane didn't attack him," Sherlock replies.

There's a pause, then Lestrade demanding, "Come on - out with it. What've you got."

"Oh, not much," Sherlock smiles into the phone. (Love this bit!) "There’s the chair, of course.”

“The chair?”

“The one on its side. Bradshaw wants us to think it got knocked over in the struggle, but there was blood underneath it.”

“You’re right: that _isn’t_ much. Besides, there was blood on the chair back. Blackshaw could’ve been knifed first, then the chair got knocked over in the ensuing struggle.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the phone. “What about the gun?”

“What about it?”

“No blood on it anywhere.”

There’s a pause, as the pieces click slowly into place in Lestrade’s brain. “Which means Blackshaw fired the gun _before_ he was bleeding.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock agrees. “And then there was the _shape_ of the blood splashes. Little round pools. Round!”

Sherlock hears Lestrade give a little hum of comprehension. “If there’d been a fight, they’d have been streaks.”

“Exactly!” Sherlock cries. “Blackshaw said he tried to defend himself, but the blood stains say he was standing still. Those wounds were self-inflicted.”

Lestrade gives a low whistle. “The devious bastard.”

“And if he’d been defending himself against a knife,” Sherlock continues, “he’d have lacerations on his arms and hands. Like-” He stops. (John.)

“How’s he doing?” Lestrade asks, his voice suddenly full of concern.

Sherlock realizes he doesn’t know. John isn’t in the sitting room. (Where is he?) (He was here … half an hour ago?) (He can’t have gone out.) (Can he?)

“Sherlock?” Lestrade’s disembodied voice is saying. “Sherlock?”

“Got to go.” Worried now, Sherlock clicks the phone off without further explanation. “John? John!”

He races up the stairs to John’s room, taking them two at a time, but John’s room is empty. He races back down again - and then (vaguely) remembers John saying (in that charmingly basic way of his) that he needed 'a piss'. (But that was just after getting home.) (Almost an _hour_ ago.) Sherlock hurries to the bathroom.

The door is shut, but not locked. Sherlock pushes it open, only to have it instantly bang shut in his face. He turns the handle and pushes, but nothing happens. (There’s something heavy against the door.) (John.)

“John? Are you all right?”

“Uh … Yes. Fine. I can manage.”

(Didn’t ask if he could manage.) (Which means he can’t.) Sherlock rattles the door again. “Let me in.”

“What! No! I told you, I’m fine.”

“John,” Sherlock growls. “Open the door. Now.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation, then the sound of a footstep, then another, moving away from the door. Sherlock opens it and steps into the bathroom.

He was expecting … something bad. (Blood.) (John passed out on the bathmat.) (Or shuddering with post-traumatic shock in a corner.) What he sees is something else entirely, almost comical. John has managed to half-unravel the gauze bandaging his left hand (he’s left-handed) (that makes sense), and it’s dangling in a long, white stream from his wrist like a prop for a female gymnast’s floor routine. The comic effect is enhanced still further by John’s expression - part embarrassment, part irritation. (He must look exactly like this when he argues with chip-and-pin machines.)

“You’re supposed to keep the bandages on for forty-eight hours, _Doctor_ ,” Sherlock points out.

John grimaces. “I know! But … couldn’t …” He glances down at his flies. (Oh.) (No, of course, he couldn’t!) “So,” he adds, starting to babble, “I thought I’d just take this bandage off - it’ll be okay, I’ve got stitches and packing and wadding - and then retie it all so I can, um, you know-”

“You’re supposed to keep the bandages clean,” Sherlock objects.

“I know!” John cries again, exasperated. “But I can’t just not-” He starts tugging at the gauze again, with his teeth. “There are some things-”

Sherlock grabs his arm, pulling his hand away from his mouth. “Stop it. Here. I’m perfectly capable of undoing a zip.” And he does. Flicks the tag up, releasing the little hook, and pulls John’s zip all the way down.

And that’s when it hits him. If John doesn’t remove the bandage, there’s no way he’s going to be able to get himself out of his underpants. Which means …

“Sherlock,” John is saying, quietly squirming. “Really, you don’t have-”

“Shut up!” Sherlock snaps. (Talking about this will only make it much, much worse.) “You can’t manage by yourself.” If he’s going to do this, he has to be brisk and business-like about it. He seizes John by the shoulders, turns him round to face the toilet and, determinedly looking at neither John’s face nor his groin, reaches into soft cotton of his pants to free his penis.

The contact lasts for no more than a second - Sherlock steps quickly back and John does a little wiggle, rising up on his toes and bending forward from the waist so that he can urinate into the bowl - but that second might as well have been a lifetime. Sherlock has never touched a penis other than his own before and, despite his desperate efforts not to think about it, his brain is frantically analysing and cataloguing the sensations: the warmth and weight of it, the velvet soft skin, the faintest flicker of a pulse … And now, god help him, he’s wondering what his touch felt like to John. (Was it quantifiably different from when he takes himself in hand?) (Better?) (Worse?) (Was there any pleasure in it?)

He hears the flush go, and the sound of John awkwardly clearing his throat. “Um, Sherlock. If you could just …”

(It’s just the same thing.) (In reverse.) (Tuck him back in, redo his zip.) (Nothing to panic about.)

Sherlock steps in close again. (Determined.) (Resolute.) (Too quickly, as it happens.) Because just as he does so, John turns (to make it easier?), and Sherlock’s right foot comes down hard on his left, making him start and give a small grunt of pain. Sherlock tries to apologize, but John is too busy repeating “Sorry, sorry” to hear him, and too occupied with trying to move his foot out of the way to notice Sherlock going for another position. This time they knock into each other at the shoulder.

“Keep _still_ ,” Sherlock orders, gripping John’s hipbone, “or you’ll have us both on the floor.”

John stills. Stops breathing. Waits.

And this time, when Sherlock touches him, John’s eyes close and and a little tremor goes through him. His penis pulses in Sherlock’s hand, getting hotter and harder with each heartbeat, with each shallow breath, until Sherlock wonders how the hell he’s supposed to squeeze it back through John’s flies and inside pants without a great deal of fumbling.

“Sorry,” John mumbles, as Sherlock stands, frozen. “I’m not doing it on purpose.”

He looks miserable now. (Hard, but miserable.) Pathetic too. (All bandaged up, and unable to do a thing for himself.) (Because he just _had_ to be heroic.) Sherlock sees the flash of Blackshaw’s blade again, and feels the rush of horror that hit him when he realized John had been hurt. Hurt, trying to protect him. (The idiot.) (He could have died.)

(And if he had?) Something deep inside Sherlock’s chest twists. He looks down at John and it twists again. He lowers his head and kisses him. (But John deserves more.) (More than just kissing.) “What if _I_ was?” Sherlock breathes, against his lips. “Doing it on purpose?”

John shudders. (His answer.)

Kissing him again, Sherlock pushes him back, until he’s propped up against the washbasin, and undoes the button at the top of his flies. John’s hands flap uselessly at this, and he groans, low in his throat when Sherlock grasps his penis again, more firmly this time, and starts to stroke. John curses softly, but he makes no move to push Sherlock away.

Sherlock decides on a rhythm (slow, deliberate) (two seconds up, all the way, two seconds down) (not exactly an efficient rate, but John wants to enjoy it, right?) and sticks to it ruthlessly, refusing to respond when John’s hips start rocking to a faster beat and his breathing becomes more rapid. Sherlock's skin has started to tingle, and his belly to tighten with arousal, but he feels amazingly calm. It's easy. Instinctive. (No, not just calm. _Powerful_. In control.) Watching John fall apart like this, it’s hard to picture him as a soldier, a war veteran, a hero: he surrenders so easily. (Would he let me do _anything_ to him right now, without a fight?) The thought makes Sherlock even more aroused, and he kisses John harder, strokes him faster.

With a strangled little noise, John arches against the sink and gasps, “Wait!”

Sherlock stops. “What?”

“It can’t just be me,” John pants. “Let me-” With a little hiss of pain, he insinuates a hand between them, and presses it to Sherlock’s (now very hard) erection, unleashing a wave of _wantlustneed_ that crashes over Sherlock so hard that it takes his breath away and makes him rock back on his heels.

“Don’t,” he rasps.

“But it’s not fair,” John argues, doing it again and hissing once more. “Let me-” he pleads, moving his hand now (up and down now), biting his lip against the obvious discomfort it causes.

The wave of desire that hits Sherlock this time is every bit as bad as the first. ( _Worse_ ). He feels like he’s drowning. His lungs hurt. His senses scream. “ _Don’t_ ,” he snarls.

“But Sherlock,” John wheedles, smiling. “Come on, it’s-”

Sherlock doesn’t give him time to finish. He shoves him back roughly, right into the sink, so that he’s actually sitting in it with his legs dangling over the side, powerless. And now Sherlock pumps him furiously, until John is shaking and panting, and moaning “Oh god, oh god, oh god”. But even now, he’s still struggling to reciprocate; hooking a leg around Sherlock’s thighs for leverage to pull himself up and closer; trying yet again to rub one of his injured hands over the front of Sherlock’s trousers.

(It’s too much.) Sherlock bites at his throat. “If you don’t keep still,” he promises, in a low rumble, working John ever faster, “I’ll tear those bandages off you and tie you to the taps with them.”

As far as John’s self-control goes, the threat proves the last straw. Dragging in a great gasping breath, he comes hard, arching so violently that his head knocks the tooth brush holder off the window sill behind him and into the bath.

Gazing down at him, Sherlock is astonished to see his expression shift slowly from the pained-pleasure of orgasm into one of blissful contentment. (How can he lie there, wet and sticky, and _broken_ , and not want to run away and hide?)

(Talking of wet and sticky …) Sherlock hauls John unceremoniously out of the sink and turns on the tap, washing his hands with both soap and water (the palms, the backs, between the fingers). When he’s done, he dries them carefully with a towel - which he then passes to John, only to realize John can’t tidy himself up on his own. Sherlock does his best but, even if John doesn’t need to hide away, _he_ does. He needs quiet. (Isolation.) (Release.) As a result his ministrations are hurried, brief. When John is passably clean and dry, he hastily rearranges his clothing (no buttoning or zipping up) (John had better live in easily-removed pyjamas until his bandages come off), all the while counting the seconds until he can shut himself in his room, and do something about his own horrible state of arousal.

John, however, has gone into affectionate overdrive. He nuzzles his head into Sherlock’s shoulder, grinning drunkenly. “That-” he manages, before bursting into giggles, “ - was fantastic. Best piss ever.”

Sherlock merely grunts, eager to be gone.

John blocks his way. Kisses him. “My hands aren’t much use,” he murmurs, “but if you want me to, I could-” He breaks off and licks his lips.

(If not his hands, then what? Oh god! He’s offering his _mouth_.) Sherlock feels the room spin.

“No! No. There’s no need. I-I’ll …” (There’s no point in finishing the sentence.) (It’s obvious.)

“Okay,” John says, wistfully. (Looking like he’s just been denied the most enormous treat.) (Which is, frankly, insane.) “Maybe another time.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. (John will inevitably mistake ‘maybe’ for ‘yes’.) To his immense relief, this time, John makes no move to stop him heading for his room, even if he does smile (sadly) and say, “Think of me.”

(Think of him?)

Sherlock’s been doing little else for weeks. (That's not likely to end any time soon.)

(And certainly not over the course of the next few minutes.)


	4. Suspicions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go smoothly between Sherlock and John for a while but a new case causes tension between them. Sherlock's attempt at a reconciliation only makes things much worse.

**  
_January 18th - five minutes later_  
**

 

(John.)

( _John._ )

Flat on his back, trousers and pants on the floor by the bed where, in his haste, he abandoned them, Sherlock is on the edge of orgasm. He’s never masturbated in the afternoon before, never been in the grip of such urgent need, and each rough movement of his hand brings him as much self-loathing as it does pleasure. The knowledge that John is mere yards away, more than aware of what he’s doing, only adds to his sense of shame.

(John.) (John panting, writhing, his penis hard and hot and leaking.)

Sherlock bites his lip, doing his damnedest not to moan, as his head arches back into the pillow and he starts to thrust into his hand.

(John’s hand, pressing, rubbing.) ( _Oh god._ )

The thought is almost too much to deal with. As terrifying as it is intoxicating.

(John. In the sink.) (No - John in the sink with his wrists bound to the taps, unable to move, legs spread, hips curling up and under-)

Sherlock’s orgasm hits him from all sides at once, knocking the air from his lungs, and for a long while afterwards he’s able to do nothing but lie gasping, his hand still tight around his penis, fingers wet and sticky, as he shudders from the intensity of it.

( _John_.)

Little by little Sherlock comes back to himself, gradually becoming aware of the bed, the room, the sound of the traffic outside, and of the sweat cooling on his forehead and dampening his shirt. Now that the physical pleasure of release is ebbing, he feels queasy. Wounded. He wants to roll onto his side and curl up under the duvet to recover, warm and hidden. To take to his bed for the rest of the day - the rest of the week - and pretend that the last hour never happened.

(If only.) (Wet.) (Sticky.) (Wash. _Now_.) (Except-)

To his horror, Sherlock realizes that in order to take a much needed shower (can’t stand the animal smell of ejaculate, the ghastly tackiness of it), he will have to pass through the living room.

(John will still be there.) ( _No_.) (Can’t do it. Can’t face him. Not yet.)

Shivering slightly (and bloody cold from the waist down), Sherlock gets out of bed and rummages (one-handedly) through his sock-drawer for tissues. There’s a packet right at the back, and in taking it out, he discovers a little bottle of antibacterial gel he’d forgotten he had. (Might as well use it.)

At first, it’s just cold, then colder still as the alcohol starts to evaporate, then-

Sherlock winces at a sharp, acid stab of pain. “Bloody hell!” (Must’ve broken skin.) (Should have taken it slower.) (Should have used more Vaseline.) Fists clenched and doubled over, he breathes his way through the vicious stinging, blowing out air through his mouth, until it subsides. (Mother always did say no good would come to ‘dirty boys’.)

Well, at least he’s hygienic now. His hands and his body - the entire room - smell of disinfectant. He’s clean and purified, his sin atoned for by pain. As he wipes himself dry with more tissues, he starts to feel better. Back in control. A fresh pair of underpants and a clean shirt and he’s ready to get dressed again. Even if he’s far from ready to leave the safety of his room.

He spends the next five hours finding reasons (excuses) to stay there: some reading, some web surfing (John’s blog is both reassuring - so much unabashed admiration - and worrying - so much misplaced hero-worship), a little tinkering with an experiment (the dehydration of maggots over time) and even some tidying up. At twenty-past ten, it seems safe to assume that John will have gone to bed (there have been no sounds of movement in the living room for over an hour and the TV is off).

But John hasn’t gone to bed. He’s sitting on the settee (almost golden in the yellow light cast by the floor lamp), an open box of bandages and plasters at his side. As Sherlock enters the room, he looks up, blinks (twice) and smiles. (He’s been waiting.) (The blinking’s an admission of that, the smile an apology for it.) Fear seizes Sherlock by the throat (Oh god, no. Not again.) until he realizes that John has taken the hint and swapped his jeans for pyjama bottoms. Sherlock lets out a little exhalation of relief - only to suck it back in again when John says, “I was hoping you could help me.”

Sherlock’s heart stops. “What?”

“With these bandages,” John says, holding up his hands. “Could you take them off for me? I’ve got some hydrocolloid plasters in here -” He nods towards the box. “- and, unlike these things, they actually speed up the healing process. I could probably do it myself - eventually - but if I move my fingers too much, the cuts will just open up again. Which would defeat the point.”

His eyebrows are raised, his smile tentative.

Sherlock joins him on the settee, sitting a careful eighteen inches away. “If they’re so much better, why didn’t the paramedics use them?” he asks, dubiously, riffling the neat row of individually wrapped plasters with a nail.

“They cost more.” John lays a gauze-encased hand on the cushion between them. “Thanks.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Sherlock asks, but he gives in anyway and starts to tease open the knot securing John’s bandage.

“Of course I’m sure,” John says firmly, before adding more hesitantly, eyes lowered, “Besides, I don’t want to put you in that position again.” He gives a short, rueful laugh. “Well, you know - not before you want me to.”

Sherlock swallows. “John-”

“No,” John interrupts, shaking his head. “ _No_. I’m fine with it. Seriously. You’ll succumb to my charms eventually. Now, find a couple of the bigger plasters for my palms.”

Grateful to have something else to think about (even if it’s not working completely), Sherlock sorts through the little plastic envelopes until he finds some. “Thank you,” he says, quietly, returning to unwinding the bandage from John’s hand.

“No. Thank _you_.” John leans in and gives him a chaste kiss on the cheek - providing a scrap of comfort as the bandage comes off and Sherlock discovers a wadge of blood-soaked wadding underneath. (John’s hands!) (John’s surgeon’s hands!) A cut, almost five centimetres long, has clawed an angry, red path across his palm.

“Huh,” John grunts. “Look at that. He carved me a new life line. I like it! It’s longer.”

“Don’t tell me you believe in that nonsense,” Sherlock scoffs. (And John’s life line is unscathed. It’s his heart line that’s suffered.)

Peeling back the narrow strips of padding protecting John’s fingers reveals a dozen smaller cuts, not as deep, but some have scored his fingertips. (Painful!) Overcome at the sight of them, and by the memory of how they happened, Sherlock brings John’s hand to his mouth and kisses it lightly. Licks. For a moment, he’s lost in the metallic smell and taste of the dried blood there; when he raises his eyes, John is watching him, an absurdly fond expression on his face.

“Sherlock-”

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock says, cutting him off, “And if you ever do anything that stupid again, I’ll kill you myself. Do you understand?”

John nods. “Absolutely.” This time, when he leans in, he kisses Sherlock full on the mouth. (Softly. Sweetly.) “But don’t expect that to make any difference if I think your life is in danger.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

**  
_January 21st_  
**

 

The past two days have been remarkably easy. Unexpectedly so. Neither Sherlock nor John has mentioned what happened in the bathroom and, though it still lingers between them, it’s a source of peace: a truce, an agreement to leave things alone for now.

Meanwhile John has been happier than Sherlock has ever seen him. He’s scarcely stopped smiling, and has kept bursting into little snatches of (off-key) singing, and coming up behind him to put his arms around him. Or pressing kisses to his cheek, his throat, the nape of his neck. (Which is perfectly acceptable though not as good as a proper kiss.) (John is very good at proper kisses.) (As well as the spine-deep tingling, there’s an all-consuming warmth. A sense of being cherished. Adored.)

Yesterday afternoon, John inveigled Sherlock into opening a bottle of wine, before slipping a DVD (some ridiculous Hollywood detective story) into the player, and they sat together, side by side, watching it - Sherlock criticizing the detective’s methods and bemoaning the sheer obviousness of the villain in such detail and at such great length that eventually John was forced to kiss him to shut him up. Thanks to the wine (a very good Barolo) (a typically ostentatious present from Mycroft for Christmas), John’s mouth tasted of cherries and chocolate, violets and spice, and though Sherlock still thought that John-as-nature-intended tasted far, far better, the novelty was entrancing, and he couldn’t get enough of it, stepping up his critical analysis of the film to such an extent that the final dénouement was lost in a series of long, long kisses which left Sherlock weak and breathless, and John grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“There are other parts of you I’d like to kiss like that, you know,” he smiled. (Wickedly). Because Sherlock was as hard as he was, and they both knew it.

Sherlock was glad he was sitting down; there was no way his legs would have supported him with his treacherous imagination working on exactly what that might be like; how it might feel to have John’s lips on flesh more sensitive than his mouth, and the dizzying possibilities of John’s tongue …

“You’re still convalescing, Doctor,” he eventually managed to return primly, even if his voice was strained and uneven. He was half-expecting John to be resentful at yet another rejection, but he simply smiled.

That was yesterday.

Today the bandages come off.

Sherlock pokes at his breakfast toast, pushing it from one side of the plate to the other (where it looks no more appetizing than before).

Across the table, John has demolished three slices of toast and two fried eggs - a few crumbs and a yellow-orange streak of congealed yolk the only sign there was ever anything on the plate he’s pushed aside. (He’s waiting.)

Sherlock’s stomach contracts. (Promised to do it.) (Would be ridiculous to refuse now. But-) He takes a deep breath. (John’s left-handed.) “I’ll do the right one first.”

Stretching his arm across the table, John lays his right hand - palm up - beside Sherlock’s plate. His plasters are creased from their two days in service, but they’re remarkably clean, the edges still firmly attached to his skin and Sherlock has to work a nail under the corner of the one covering John’s palm to get enough grip on it to remove it. He pulls slowly, gently, doing his utmost not to make John’s injuries any worse.

It seems to take forever but at last, it’s done. John leans forward in his seat to take a look. “Pretty good,” he declares, sitting back down again with a little nod of satisfaction.

Sherlock has to agree: the cut has closed completely, the frayed edges of the wound neatly knitted back together in a thin pinky-white line. But the sight of it makes his stomach twist again. (It was the perfect excuse, but now it’s past its sell-by date.)

“Uh … the rest of them too?” John prompts, head tipped questioningly to one side.

Sherlock pulls himself hastily together. “Of course!” He starts with the plaster on John’s index finger, peeling it off with infinite care but, as he unwinds it from the back of the finger, John flinches and clenches his teeth.

“What?” Sherlock demands, alarmed.

“Nothing. Just got caught on a hair.”

(Of course! Pulling slowly was stupid. Everyone knows the best thing with plasters is to just rip them off.)

Sherlock sets about the task briskly, holding John tightly by the wrist to stop him from pulling away involuntarily. When the next plaster comes off, John inhales sharply.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mutters, slightly worried. He’s never taken care of anyone before; he has no idea if he’s doing it properly.

John closes his eyes, shaking his head. “No,” he says, in an oddly breathy tone. “It’s fine. Go on.”

But with every plaster Sherlock tears off, John starts slightly, tugging against Sherlock’s grip, and catching his breath, so it’s with some trepidation that Sherlock moves on to the plasters on his left hand. The one on the palm comes off easily enough, but removing the one from John’s forefinger provokes the same pained reaction.

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Sherlock snaps. (John has no idea how difficult this is.) “D’you want to do this hand yourself, since you obviously don’t think much of my technique?”

“No! I mean … uh, no. You’re doing fine. Honestly. It’s all … fine.”

And that’s when Sherlock notices how fast the pulse at John’s wrist is thumping.

“John?” he asks, slowly, not even sure what the question is.

John’s pupils are huge and dark. “I said it’s fine,” he insists. “Please. Keep going.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Just before lunchtime, Mrs Hudson raps on the door.

“Yoo-hoo!” she says, opening it and peering in. “There’s someone here to see you.”

It’s Sarah.

Sherlock feels his hackles rise.

John all but leaps out of his chair to greet her. “Sarah!” he cries (gushes). “Come in! Thank you, Mrs Hudson. You remember my friend, Sarah, don’t you?”

(Friend?) (He means ‘colleague’.) (Or ‘boss’.) (Not ‘friend’.) Sherlock refuses to return the smile Sarah offers him, pointedly turning his back on her to re-read a newspaper article he wasn’t interested in the first time he looked at it.

“Of course, dear,” Mrs Hudson is saying. “I never forget a face. Especially not a pretty one. Well, dear, I’ll leave you to it. I have to get to the dentist. Wisdom teeth giving me a bit of gyp. Should have had them out years ago. D’you know anything about teeth, Sa-”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock growls, rising to manhandle her back out through the door. (The sooner she shuts up and goes, the sooner Sarah will say what she’s come for and leave too.)

Mrs Hudson has the good grace to know when she’s not wanted. Sarah lets John help her out of her coat.

Enraged, Sherlock stalks into the kitchen and hunts through his chemicals cupboard for something pungently offensive to set fire to, only to discover he’s completely out of both hydrogen and ammonium sulphide. Thwarted, he returns to the sitting room even more irritated by Sarah’s presence.

She’s wearing a white shirt with a scooped neck, the front decorated with neatly stitched little pleats, coupled with a black and white skirt that falls to just below the knee. However, the ostensibly sweet and innocent look is (knowingly) undermined by the translucency of the shirt and the glimpse of a bra beneath it. (Her whole outfit has been put together specifically to tease John.)

“I came to ask you two things,” she’s saying, tucking a strand of hair (unnecessarily) behind her ear and smiling, her eyes darting away from John’s and back again. “First-” She fiddles with her earlobe (in a way she must imagine is cute) (or arousing). “- could you give me a couple of days next week? Tuesday and Friday? David’s away on an EKU course.”

(She could have phoned for that.)

“I’d be happy to,” John smiles. “And I need the money.”

“Good,” Sarah says (eagerly). “Well, not that you need the money, but that you can do it. Thank you.”

“And the other thing?” John asks. (He’s giving her that smile. The one that’s all soft eyes and gently curving lips.)

(He liked her.) (He wanted her.) ( _First_.) (She was his first choice. If she hadn’t kept him dangling …)

Sherlock wishes to god he’d never given up smoking because right now would be a perfect time to reach for a cigarette. He grabs a random book from the shelf instead (one of John’s) (Rousseau’s _Confessions_ ) and sticks his head in it, trying (in vain) to neither see nor hear the conversation that’s going on right next to him.

“You didn’t … “ Sarah hesitates for a moment, then rushes into her question, “You haven’t ever noticed anyone hanging around the surgery, have you? Anyone suspicious? In places they shouldn’t be?”

Brow furrowed, John shakes his head. “No. I don’t think so. Why?”

“Oh, it’s probably nothing,” Sarah says brightly. “Judy thought she saw someone, that’s all.”

“Right,” John nods. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate it. Even if just to put Judy’s mind at rest. She’s been quite … tense, since she came back.”

“Well, she’s a new mum,” John points out. “She’s probably exhausted. Give her time.”

Sarah smiles warmly at him. “Yes. You’re right.” Her smile broadens and her eyes twinkle. “You know, John Watson, you’re a very nice man.”

“I am?” (John is trying to sound surprised, but he’s flattered. Delighted.)

Sherlock gives a snort of disgust.

It attracts Sarah’s attention. “What’s the book?” she asks.

“Rousseau.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Any good?”

(There must be a perfect reply to this. Something that will impress upon her how badly she’s not wanted, but which doesn’t make John too angry.) Sherlock racks his brain, and suddenly it comes to him. Something he remembers his classmates laughing about at school.

He flashes her a quick smile. “It’s certainly interesting. Did you know he yearned to be beaten his entire life?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the colour drain from John’s face. (Damn! Not good.) Meanwhile Sarah is staring at him in shock.

“It’s true!” he protests (floundering now). (Is it true?) (Or were the boys at school just joking?)

Sarah clears her throat. “Yes, well. Interesting, yes.” She looks at her watch. (Success!) “I should probably go.”

John helps her back into her coat. “I’ll walk you to the bus stop.”

He doesn’t look at Sherlock as he opens the door. Doesn’t say he’ll be back soon. Doesn’t say anything.

(Oh, _hell_.)

 

* * * * * *

 

**  
_Twenty minutes later_  
**

 

By the time John comes back, Sherlock is sure of his facts. (God bless the internet. The boys at school were right.) (More importantly, _I_ was right.)

He’s also twitchy (the bus stop is fifty yards down the street; it doesn’t take twenty minutes to get there and back) and when John enters, unbuttoning his coat, he leaps up, demanding, “Where have you been?”

“You know where I’ve been,” John says. (Growls.) (So much for not making him angry.) “I walked Sarah to the bus stop.” He slams the door shut and practically impales his coat on the rack.

(What happened?) ( _Sarah_.) (Everything was fine until _she_ turned up.) (John can’t really be this cross about a flippant remark, can he?) Sherlock takes him by the shoulders. “What’s the matter?”

“What’s the matter!” John fumes. “You’re the genius here. What do you think’s the matter?” His eyes have narrowed to dark slits, his mouth to a thin line.

“I shouldn’t have said the thing about Rousseau?” Sherlock offers. Looking sheepishly apologetic involves raising the eyebrows (to encourage sympathy from the target), wrinkling the nose (self-deprecation), smiling (a plea for forgiveness) and biting the bottom lip (contrition). Sherlock deploys them all.

It’s a trick that works instantly on most people, but John is not most people. “That’s good,” he says (though his tone is saying something else entirely). “Yeah, a good deduction. Jesus, Sherlock! Sarah’s my _boss_. You can’t just say things like that out of the blue. You embarrassed her.” He turns away, shaking his head in exasperation.

(When an apology doesn’t work, try anger.) “You mean I embarrassed _you_ ,” Sherlock snaps. “You know I’m no good at small talk and yet you persist in putting me in situations where I’m expected to use it. If you don’t want me to say embarrassing things to Sarah, I suggest you stop inviting her here.” (Oh hell. That didn’t sound like anger; that sounded like petulance.)

John spins around, open-mouthed. “You were jealous!” he gasps, the light coming back into his eyes until they’re positively sparkling with amusement. “Again! First Miranda Bartlett, now Sarah.”

Sherlock tosses his head. “Don’t be absurd.”

“You were!” John crows, poking Sherlock in the chest with a goading forefinger. (It’s obviously completely healed.) “You were jealous! Admit it!”

(Is it hot in here? It feels hot. Uncomfortable.) “I was not.”

“Yeah,” John chuckles, “well I reckon you were.” And he punctuates each word with another poke.

(The best form of defence is attack.) “That’s because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock retorts and give him a little push - not hard, just enough that his back hits the wall - then he steps in close and plants his hands on the wall on either side of John’s head, trapping him. “Trust me,” he says, dropping his voice meaningfully, “if I were jealous, there would be no ‘reckoning’ about it.”

John swallows and licks his lips. “Yeah?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, just kisses him. Hard. And when he finally lets him up for air again, it’s to find him looking utterly dazed. (It’s really quite amusing, how much he likes the forceful approach.) (And it explains at least part of his interest …)

“Just so you know,” John murmurs, smiling stupidly. “You’ve got nothing to be jealous of. Seriously. Nothing at all.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

**  
_January 24th_  
**

 

Glimpsed through the lab door’s glass panel, two things are immediately obvious about Molly: one - she’s regained the three pounds she lost six months ago; and two - she’s happy. (Conclusion: a new boyfriend.) She’s seated on a stool, next to one of the autopsy tables, filling out forms. Sherlock hasn’t seen her for weeks. (Will she still be easy to charm, or has her new relationship given her immunity?)

Sherlock pushes the door open as quietly as he can (she’s engrossed in her work and the element of surprise is always an advantage, especially where Molly’s concerned) and crosses the white linoleum floor noiselessly (thank you Gucci and your flexible leather soles).

“Molly,” he purrs, almost into her ear, as he comes up behind her. “I wonder if you could do me a favour?”

She starts, drops her clipboard and spins round. “Oh,” she says, with a breathless laugh, “it’s you.”

(If she self-grooms in any way at this point, the deal is as good as done.) Sherlock looks deep into her eyes. “Yes. Me again. Sorry.”

“No, no,” she says, smiling (nervously), reflexively raising a hand to fiddle with her hair (bingo!), “it’s nice to see you. I mean - uh, what do you want?”

“I need …” (Hesitate.) (Raise eyebrows. Look hopeful.) (Drop the voice half an octave.) “Could you possibly let me borrow something?”

“What?”

(Smile at her.) “I need a body part. Something small but fleshy. Bone in. Part of an arm? A lower leg? Could you? Please?”

“I, uh … Have you spoken to Mike about it?”

(Dissemble.) “I thought I should speak to you too, though. Out of professional courtesy.” (Oh, that worked beautifully! Her chin has lifted and she’s trying to suppress a proud smile.) “I mean, if I’d just taken something without telling you, you might have assumed the hospital was under attack from flesh-eating zombies - or worse.”

It’s a feeble joke, but Molly laughs anyway, and half an hour later, Sherlock is in the back of a taxi, an icebox containing a six-inch length of upper arm on his lap. Sherlock only hopes his new experiment will be enough to distract him, because John will be at the surgery tomorrow.

With Sarah.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

**  
_January 25th - late_  
**

 

Sherlock manages to stick to his resolution to play it cool when John gets home from work for all of two minutes. Just enough time for John to come in and close the door. The minute he begins talking about his day, the surgery, and some problem Sarah was having (tedious nonsense about a lost prescription pad), Sherlock is behind him, plucking the keys from his hand and removing his coat. John laughs at what he imagines is a chivalrous gesture on Sherlock’s part, only to jump when Sherlock tosses his coat to the floor and pulls him close, pressing John’s back hard to his front, and angling one arm across John’s front to keep him from moving away as he slides the other hand under the waistband of John’s trousers and into his pants.

“I, uh …” John stammers. “You missed me, then?”

Sherlock kisses the side of his neck and takes his earlobe between his teeth. “Shut up.”

John’s penis jumps instantly to attention and Sherlock does his best to wrap his hand around it, only to find there’s not enough room. It doesn’t help that John is trying to twist around, trying to kiss him too, and to wrest back some control of the situation.

Sherlock holds him tighter. “Keep still,” he breathes against his ear, “and undo your trousers.”

It takes John a second or two to process the order, but when he does, he hurries to obey, fingers trembling a little as he pops open the button restricting the movement of Sherlock’s hand and unzips his flies.

Sherlock reduces him to quivering want with just seven slow, firm strokes (the trick is to almost thumb the head but not quite). Stroking faster takes him right to the edge of orgasm and a light bite to the heated skin on the side of his neck sends him right over it. His legs buckle, and his head falls forward, so that it’s only by bearing almost all of his weight that Sherlock is able to keep him upright. (Holding him like this is strangely pleasant. Despite the stickiness.)

When John’s breathing evens out a bit, he gently disengages Sherlock’s restraining arm and turns around to face him. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright and focused on Sherlock’s lips. (A kiss is imminent.)

It’s soft to start with, tender, and Sherlock happily opens his mouth to accept John’s gratefully caressing tongue. He’s aroused himself, and the contact, the warm solidity of John’s body, magnifies the sensation perfectly, as one of John’s hands travels down his back, leaving a trail of sparking nerve-endings in its wake, whilst the other hand cups the side of Sherlock’s face, the thumb lightly stroking his throat.

(This is nice.) (Good.) (Delicious tingling, but with none of the terror of losing control.) Sherlock thinks he might be quite content to spend the rest of his life like this - in warm anticipation - but John doesn’t seem to understand that (he’s pushing) (he _keeps_ pushing), and even now, the hand at Sherlock’s throat is slipping lower to undo a shirt button, and the hand on his back is tugging the bottom of his shirt free from his trousers. A jolt of pleasure shoots up Sherlock’s spine, as John’s fingers find naked skin, but there’s fear in it too.

“Stop,” Sherlock manages, though the edges of the word are blurred by the pressure of John’s mouth. “Don’t.”

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, between little kisses, “I can’t keep letting you … letting you wank me off without returning the favour.” He laughs softly. “It offends my sense of fair play.”

The hand at Sherlock’s back is tracing thrilling little circles at the small of his back, dipping lower and lower with each revolution, and Sherlock’s pulse has started to race. It’s all he can do not to grind against John, but he doesn’t. John likes him forceful. In control. He could no more contemplate letting go in John’s presence, than he could attempt to fly. (Why can’t John just take what he’s given?)

“ _No_.”

The kissing stops and John pulls away. Sherlock expects a glare or a sharp word, but John’s face is full of (painful) compassion. “All right,” he says quietly. “But this has to stop, Sherlock. It makes me feel like I’m using you.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m not complaining. You need it. I don’t.”

“Yeah,” John agrees. “My point entirely.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

__  
**January 28th - morning**  


 

“Sherlock!”

Somewhere beyond the cotton-wool fuzziness of his semi-consciousness, someone is speaking. (John.) Sherlock struggles to break through the thick skin of sleepiness to answer, but the effort is too much. (After three sleepless nights, two days of fruitlessly trying to work out exactly what John wants if no-strings orgasms aren’t enough for him, he has to pick the very moment sleep comes to start talking?) Sherlock grunts, rolls over to face the wall and pulls the duvet up over his head.

A hand yanks it back again, and light floods the room. Even behind his closed eyelids, Sherlock’s aware of that. “Piss off,” he growls, trying to burrow deeper into the bed.

“Sherlock!” John persists, shaking him by the shoulder. “Come on, wake up!”

Sherlock flings himself onto his back and squints up at John, who’s leaning over him, silhouetted against the light. “What?”

“I need-” John begins, and now that Sherlock can just about make out his features, he reads impatience in them - impatience and _need_.

“Good god, John,” he groans, reaching up for him. “You couldn’t have waited a bit? This is what comes of denying yourself. You can’t even resist an extra piece of toast for long.”

John bats his hand away. “No, Sherlock, I’m not here for … that. I need my keys. For work. The last time I remember having them, you … Well, they were in my hand, then you jumped me, and after that, I don’t remember much,” he finishes in a rush.

Sherlock doesn’t remember keys at all. All he remembers is John’s ragged breathing and his sated little moan as he went limp in his arms. (And some drivel about John not wanting it to happen again.)

“Think!” John urges. “What did you do with them? Come on, or I’m going to be late.”

Sherlock hauls himself up into a sitting position and scratches his head with both hands, trying to wake himself up. “What makes you think I have them? You went shopping on Wednesday. How did you get back in?”

“You let me in. Eventually.”

(Wednesday was a bad day. Too many thoughts, none of them useful. Too many theories, none of them proven.) “They aren’t on the table?” Sherlock asks. “My desk?”

“No.”

“I might have put them in a pocket.”

For a moment, John simply stands there waiting. Then his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare. (Exasperation.) “I’ll just search through them all then, shall I?”

Sherlock turns onto his side again and closes his eyes. “Be my guest.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

__  
**That evening**  


 

There is no reason to be concerned, Sherlock tells himself, checking his watch yet again, this time against the clock on his laptop (even if a Breguet is likely to be more, not less, accurate than Google). Evening surgery only nominally closes at 8pm: it might have over-run. Or perhaps there was an emergency; or maybe John’s train was delayed; or cancelled. Sarah might have wanted to talk to him about something.

Sherlock springs up from his chair and paces over to the window, but as he peers anxiously down into the street, the flat door opens behind him, sending a warm wave of relief over him. He tries to rein it in (just in case) but when he sees it really is John (unharmed and un-tousled), he lets it fill him.

“John!”

“Brilliant observation.” John’s smile is warm, but short-lived. “Sorry I’m late. Things were a bit …” He shrugs, and flops down into his chair. His mouth is slack, drooping a little at the corners, and the lines between his eyes are deeper than usual. (He’s tired.) (No, more than tired: worried.) (Did he do something? Something he feels bad about?)

Sherlock takes a deep breath. (Whatever it was, it won’t necessarily have involved Sarah. And even if it did, it won’t necessarily have been-) “Tea?” Sherlock says, because he has to say something before he starts asking (really stupid) questions. “I mean - do you want some tea?”

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re offering to make me tea? You?”

Sherlock would much rather pin him to a wall and remind him who he belongs to now and why he should _never_ be late home, but he’s all too aware that John doesn’t want that. (He wants something else.) (Something as yet to be determined.) “Yes,” he confirms. “Tea. Not exactly an intellectual challenge, I’ll grant you, but do you want some?”

John considers for a moment. “I think I’d rather have a beer.”

Sherlock fetches a can from the fridge. (Must remember to dispose of that bit of arm. Better take it back to Bart’s. Not sure the City of Westminster council would take kindly to finding it in the recycling.)

John cracks his beer open and takes a swig, stretching his neck from side, eyes screwed shut and grimacing. (He’s carrying a lot of tension.) (Why isn’t he talking about it, whatever it is? He _always_ talks. Too much, most of the time.) (How can I get him to talk without making his tension worse?) (What do ‘normal people’ do in these circumstances?)

A sudden notion hits Sherlock. He walks around behind John’s chair and lays both hands on his shoulders. (Just a massage. No playing with him. No arousing him.) (Well, not deliberately. If he responds that way, then he only has himself to blame.) Sherlock presses the heels of his hands into John’s shoulder blades in little pulsing movements, following the rhythm of his breathing, lightly at first, then more firmly.

John lets out a sigh, and his shoulders drop. “That’s good,” he sighs, his words already starting to slur as Sherlock works on a particularly tight muscle. “Where did you learn to do that?”

(Mother.) (A long time ago.) (When she could still look at me and not see _him_ ). Sherlock doesn’t answer.

Five minutes pass, with Sherlock gently easing the stress from John’s neck and shoulders, and John making appreciative little noises.

“Okay,” John says briskly, at the end of it. “Your turn. I’m too relaxed now to get up though, so you’d better get on the floor.”

“What?” Sherlock frowns.

“On the floor,” John repeats, spreading his knees to make space. “Come on. You’ll like it.”

Sherlock looks at the little patch of carpet between John’s feet dubiously. He has no objection to sitting on the floor, but trapped between John’s legs? On the other hand, John’s access will be limited. If Sherlock sits close enough, he won’t even be able to reach his lower back. Awkwardly, (dreading this) he settles himself on the floor, and hugs his knees to his chest.

John’s hands are warm and certain. (Skilled.) They glide easily over Sherlock’s shirt in smooth, predictable movements. John doesn’t so much knead, Sherlock notes, as squeeze and flex, stretching out tight muscles, rather than digging into them, caressing them into new, looser shapes. He follows the lines they naturally want to take, easing them just a little bit further so that the tug is freeing, not painful. Sherlock closes his eyes and lets his mind drift as one of John’s hands slides into his hair, using light but sustained pressure to persuade the tendons at the nape of his neck to give way. With each exhalation, the hand grows heavier, and pushes Sherlock’s head a fraction further forward.

Sherlock finds it amazingly easy to let John do this. Easier still to let him start combining his fingers through his hair. (No, not easy: bliss.) (Mother used to do this too. A lifetime ago.)

“You know, I really like your hair,” John murmurs, and Sherlock feels him tangling a curl around a finger. “It’s ridiculous, of course, but lovely.”

Sherlock’s not sure what he’s supposed to say to that. “Uh, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” John laughs, his fingers moving on to massage Sherlock’s scalp in a way that raises goose pimples along his arms and makes him feel weak from the sheer pleasure of it. “How was your day?”

(Thinking is becoming an effort; speaking doubly so.) “Dull. Yours?”

“A bit of a bugger, really,” John sighs. He leans back in his chair, and reaches for his beer, leaving Sherlock’s scalp, neck and shoulders to suffer a sharp pang of loss. “Some drugs have gone missing.”

Sherlock swivels round between John’s legs to look up at him. “Missing? Or stolen?”

John shrugs. “I don’t see how they can have been stolen. They were there this morning. Apparently. Locked away.”

Sherlock feels a prickle of interest. “From your room?”

“Judy Fortescue’s. You know - the woman who came back early from maternity leave.” John takes another swig of beer, and chews his lip. “It’s strange though, because the prescription pad that went missing - that was from her room too. I’d wonder if she wasn’t just horribly sleep-deprived - her baby’s only eight weeks old - except she said she’d seen someone hanging about. Some bloke. Sarah mentioned it, remember?”

“Where is it?” Sherlock asks, determinedly ignoring the mention of Sarah. “Her room?”

“Ground floor. On the corner, at the back. Nicest room in the whole centre. It’s got a great view down to the river.”

“Is the window secure?”

“Of course it is. Health centre, remember? There are rules. Pretty tough ones, too. So, naturally, she was upset, though Sarah was very good with her. Reassured her she’d done everything right and promised that she’d do a proper search herself, after surgery.”

“Is that why you were late? You stayed to help her?”

“No. I left after my last patient.”

“Good.”

“What d’you mean ‘good’?”

Sherlock smiles. “This,” he says quietly. And kisses him.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

**  
_January 29th_  
**

 

The flat door opens and John stumbles in, gasping for breath, his face flushed and his forehead so damp with perspiration, his hair is sticking to it. There’s a sheen of sweat on his throat too and he can hardly stand.

Sherlock casts him an appalled look. “What on earth have you been doing? No, don’t answer that: I know perfectly well what you’ve been doing. The question is why?”

Doubled over and grasping the back of a chair for support, John struggles to answer. “Need to … get fit …”

“Whatever for?” Sherlock asks with a shiver, partly because of the cold (John left the front door open for far too long when he came back from his early morning run) but mostly from revulsion at the idea of working up a sweat.

“You.”

Sherlock feels his eyes go wide. (John is putting himself through a strenuous training regime for me?) (Why would he want to be fit for me?) ( _Oh_!)

His horror must show on his face, because John bursts into giggles. “No, you idiot,” he pants. “To keep up with you when we’re running around half of London. You’ve got bloody long legs, d’you know that? God, I need a drink.” He staggers off into the kitchen where, propping himself up against the sink, he downs two glasses of tap water, one after the other.

“What are you doing today?” he asks, when he returns to the living room, less breathless but with perspiration pouring down his face. “Want to go and see a film, or something?”

“A film? Why?”

John laughs. “Because it might be fun!”

Sherlock is on the point of telling John precisely what he thinks of the notion of ‘fun’, when there’s a loud knock at the door.

Then ... nothing. (Mrs Hudson never simply knocks. She knocks and comes straight in, uninvited.) (Something is wrong.) Sherlock looks questioningly John (Has he invited someone round? Is it _Sarah_ again?), but John just shrugs.

“Come in!” Sherlock shouts, and the door opens, to reveal Lestrade and Donovan.

(Oh, thank god: _work_!) (An excuse - reason - not to ‘have fun’.) “Inspector! Sergeant!” Sherlock cries, rising from his chair eagerly, but there’s something about Lestrade’s grim expression that makes him freeze.

“We need to ask you a few questions,” Donovan says, striding in, eyes flicking about the room in an assessing kind of way.

“Well, _I_ need a shower,” John says, and he tugs meaningfully at his sweat-soaked tracksuit top, “so I’ll leave you to it.”

Stepping in front of him, Donovan blocks his way. “No,” she says. “We need to speak to you too.” She darts a look at Sherlock, then turns back to John. “Told you hanging around _him_ would get you into trouble.”

“All right, Donovan,” Lestrade interrupts. “That’ll do. Why don’t you take a seat, John?”

(John?) (What do they want with John?) “What the hell is this?” Sherlock demands, as John obediently - if bemusedly - drops into his seat by the fire.

Donovan smiles (nastily). “It’s a drugs bust.”

“Ha ha.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Very funny. Lestrade?”

“It’s not a drugs bust,” Lestrade says. “Or, at least, I hope it’s not. I’m not going to find anything, if I start looking, am I?”

“I’m clean,” Sherlock insists. “You know I am. So what’s this really about?”

“It’s about the drugs that went missing from the surgery,” John says slowly. “Isn’t it?”

Lestrade nods. “So, what can you tell us?”

“Nothing really. Some drugs disappeared-”

“What kind of drugs?” Donovan asks. There’s something about her tone, about the way she looks at Sherlock, that tells him she already knows.

“Just the usual for emergency treatment,” John says, frowning with concentration. (He wants to help. Wants to get it right.) “Analgesics, tranquillisers, adrenalin, anticonvulsants …”

“Diazepam, temazepam, fentanyl, flunitrazepam …” Donovan supplies, reading from her notepad. “All good earners on the street.”

“Yes,” John agrees. “Yes, I’m sure they are. Sorry - what exactly are you driving at?”

“And a prescription pad disappeared too?” Donovan asks, ignoring the question.

John’s frown gets deeper. “Apparently.”

“From the same room?”

“Yes,” John says without hesitation, only to immediately look horrified. (He’s loyal. Afraid he’s betraying someone.) “But that doesn’t mean … “

“No.” Lestrade presses his lips together and paces about a bit. “No-one’s saying it does. We’re just gathering evidence. ”

“The room is usually occupied by a Dr Fortescue but she’s been off on maternity leave,” Donovan says. She turns to look sharply at John. “You filled in for her.”

Sherlock’s stomach drops. (They suspect _John_.)

“Uh, yes, I did,” John says slowly, his eyes darting between Donovan and Lestrade. “Look-”

“Did you, or did you not,” Donovan asks (her nasal tone is really annoying now), “have the keys to the locker in Room 3 for at least six weeks before she came back to work?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snaps. “John? Why on earth would _John_ steal drugs?”

Donovan tips her head to one side, and gives Sherlock a long, cool look up and down. “Why, indeed?”

“Could anyone else have got hold of the keys?” Lestrade asks, more kindly. “Without you knowing?”

John shakes his head. “No. I keep them with me all the … time.” His voice trails off as his eyes meet Sherlock’s.

(What? What’s he thinking? _What_?)

“You don’t sound very sure about that,” Lestrade comments.

John takes a breath, stands straighter. (Whatever his doubts were, he’s dismissed them.) “No, I’m sure,” he says, nodding, his voice firm, “I keep them with me. Always.”

Donovan and Lestrade exchange a look, and Lestrade’s nose wrinkles. (Regret.) “Look, I’m sorry, John,” he says, “but I’m going to have to ask you to come down to the station and to some more questions.”

“You can’t be serious,” Sherlock scoffs. “You’re arresting him?”

“Not at the moment, no,” Lestrade replies. “So you can calm down.”

Sherlock takes a step towards him. “Don’t patronize me-”

“It’s _okay_ , Sherlock,” John interrupts. “It’ll sort itself out. Don’t worry.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

From the living room window, numb with shock, Sherlock watches them bundle John into a police car. (At least they let him shower and change first.) (But surely Lestrade can’t really believe John a thief?) (And a stupid thief at that? What kind of an idiot steals from somewhere they’d be the first to fall under suspicion?) Sherlock feels guilty too, sure this is somehow his fault. (Payback from Donovan and Anderson? It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility.) (Should have resisted the urge to make snide comments.) (But Anderson is so annoying! He _asks_ for snide.)

Well, whatever Donovan’s motive, and whatever Lestrade believes, Sherlock is sure John is innocent: he’s far too moral to sink to robbing the NHS, even if he is constantly worried about money. So, if John didn’t do it, who did? Sherlock runs Donovan’s list of the missing drugs through his head again, looking for clues. (Diazepam, temazepam. Class C. Hypnotics, anxiolytics. ‘Jellies’.) (Fentanyl. Class A. Narcotic, analgesic. ‘TNT’. ‘Tango and Cash’.) (Flunitrazepam. Class C. Hypnotic, sedative, anticonvulsant. ‘Rohypnol’. ‘The date-rape drug’.)

(Flunitrazepam.)

(‘Rohypnol’.)

(‘Date-rape’.)

( _”You’ll succumb to my charms eventually.”_ )

For a moment, Sherlock feels sick, as if he’s been punched hard in the stomach. (John?) (No, he _wouldn’t_.) (Would he?) ( _No_.) (And John didn’t steal the drugs, either.) (Stop being an idiot.) (Concentrate.) (Think.) (Stop leaping to stupid conclusions and look at the facts.)

Another nicotine patch seems like a very good idea, and Sherlock hurries to find one. (A cigarette would be better.) (Coke, better still.) He rolls back his sleeve and applies it hastily, wishing the effect were swifter, instantly noticeable. (If John didn’t-)

His phone rings. (An unfamiliar number).

“Yes?” he snaps into it.

“Sherlock?” (An all too familiar voice.) “Is John there? He’s not answering his phone. I need to speak to him.”

“Why?”

“Well-” Sarah hesitates. “I wanted to warn him that-”

“You’re too late.”

“What?”

“You’re too late. They’ve taken him away.”

Sherlock hears Sarah gasp. “Taken him away?”

“For questioning,” Sherlock tells her. “They seem to imagine him capable of stealing from his employer. Now, where on earth could they have got an idea like that?”

“I told them it wasn’t him!” Sarah protests. “But the sergeant … she thought my judgement might have been influenced by my … friendship with him.”

“Yes, well, as I said,” Sherlock replies, “you’re too late. I’ll tell him you called. Good-bye.”

“No! Wait! We have to do something. He’s already got an ASBO. If this goes to court … Look, I’ll come round, okay?”

(No, it’s not okay.) (If anyone is going to rescue John, _I_ will.) But it’s too late to tell her not to bother. The other end of the phone has gone dead.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

By the time Sarah arrives, Sherlock has realized  that, though her presence will be an aggravation, it will also confer several advantages - chief amongst them being easy access to the surgery.

She looks flustered. Her hair has been scraped back into a (hastily fixed) ponytail, from which several wayward tendrils have escaped and she keeps smoothing them back (almost compulsively) from her face. “Sorry,” she says, as Sherlock (reluctantly) lets her in. “I’d have been here sooner, but Oxford Circus was a nightmare. What time is it?”

“Half past twelve.” (It’s taken her eighty minutes to get here.) (Eighty minutes in which there’s been no news from John.) (No calls, no response to texts - nothing.)

“How long has he been gone? Have you heard from him?”

“Two hours. And no.”

“Okay, then,” Sarah nods to herself. (She’s made some kind of decision. A plan.) “Well, what I suggest is that you and I go to the surgery, and you can have a look around. See if there’s anything the police have missed.”

( _If_ ) Sherlock snorts derisively.

“Do you have a better plan?”

“No,” Sherlock sniffs, wondering how she’d respond to his telling her how to do _her_ job. “That _is_ my plan.”

She smiles at him, tentatively. (An olive branch.) “Good. Shall we go, then?”

“Better late than never, I suppose,” Sherlock replies tartly and grabs his coat.

A minute later, he wishes he’d thought to grab his scarf and gloves too. It’s freezing - or as near as damn it - and his fingers nip with cold as he lifts his hand to hail an approaching taxi.

The cab pulls in smoothly to the kerb, a rear door opens and out steps John.

“John!” Sarah cries, and flings her arms around him. “Thank goodness! I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

John’s expression of surprise at finding himself wrapped in such a sudden and warm embrace quickly gives way to a deeply flattered smile. “Yes, thanks. I’m fine. How are you? Uh, got any money, Sherlock? Didn’t have any-”

“Forget that,” Sherlock cuts in. “Get back in the taxi, John.”

“What?”

“Do it.” It comes out more sharply than Sherlock had intended, an order rather than a request, but John doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even look offended, just confused.

“But-” Sarah objects, “I came in my car. We could all-”

Sherlock is already ducking into the taxi beside John. “We’ll meet you there,” he tells Sarah with a quick, dismissive smile. (The idea of travelling in some cramped, horrid little hatchback - and Sarah seems the type to own one - it’s probably powder blue - is too horrible to contemplate; the idea of sitting in the back of one, intolerable.) He slams the cab door shut and, leaving Sarah to wander off in search of her car, barks “Albert Road Surgery” at the driver. As the taxi pulls away again, he turns to John. “Did they charge you?”

John shakes his head. “No. But I had to give a urine sample-” He shudders. (Humiliation.) “- and they said they might need to talk to me again. To you too.” He swallows, and clears his throat. (Nervous tics, both.) (There’s something else on his mind.)

“What?”

“Look,” John says, taking Sherlock’s hand, “don’t get angry - but I have have to ask. It _wasn’t_ you, was it? I mean, I don’t really think it was but you had my keys and Lestrade said you had a history, and if you need help, Sherlock, I’m more than-”

Sherlock yanks his hand away. “No, it _wasn’t_ me. Was it you? You know about drugs. You had the opportunity, and you’ve certainly got nerve enough.”

John’s mouth falls open. “Me? Why would I want to steal drugs? You’re insane!”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. “I know what flunitrazepam is, John. What it’s used for.”

John stares at him in disbelief. “You can’t possibly think I’d … You can’t!”

“Can’t I? Why not?”

“Because!” John seems on the point of rattling off a long list of reasons, but suddenly thinks better of it. “Oh, piss off,” he growls and, folding his arms, he twists around on the seat so that his back is to Sherlock.

The journey is a silent one. Baker Street slips past, then Portland Place, then Orchard Street, then Oxford Street. They’re thronged with people - tourists, Saturday afternoon shoppers, Chelsea supporters heading for Stamford Bridge - all of them oblivious to John and his troubles.

And to Sherlock, and the terrible thing he’s just said.

 

* * * * * *

 

By the time they reach Albert Road, Sherlock’s nerves are stretched tight and fraying. (Shouldn’t have said that to John.) (Should _not_ have said it.) The surgery lighting, bouncing off magnolia walls and pale grey flooring is too bright and the high-pitched note of the burglar alarm is like having white-hot knitting needles driven into his ears. He feels almost grateful to Sarah when she finally switches it off.

Now that he can think again, he notices that here’s a strong smell of disinfectant and polish in the air. (The cleaners have only just left the premises.) (Hell, cleaners! They’ll have been even more effective at removing useful evidence than Anderson.) Sherlock notes the layout: a main and a side entrance off a central reception area. Two corridors at right angles to each other, each with a list of doctors’ names affixed to the wall. A third corridor, running parallel to the front of the building, with signage for Dentists and Minor Surgery. CCTV cameras above each entrance, another above the waiting area. Digital locks on all doors.

Sherlock starts down the corridor opposite the main doors (John said Room 3 had a view of the river), with Sarah and John following. Sarah produces a set of keys and opens the door.

(So this is where John worked …) Sherlock steps inside.

Dove-grey walls. A desk and chair, in front of a window, screened by vertical blinds. (White, like the window frame. Fire-retardant.) Posters (a flu jab reminder, an advert for weight management programmes, information on hand hygiene and mental health support). A handbasin (arched mixer tap, antibacterial handwash). A wall-mounted lockable cabinet.

He rounds the desk. Its drawers are fitted with keyholes. “Are these kept locked?” he asks. “All the time?”

“Not when we’re seeing patients,” John and Sarah say in unison so quickly that they laugh, leaning in towards each other, to share a smile.

Sherlock doesn’t smile. (It’s no laughing matter. Any of it.) “Would you ever leave a patient unattended without locking the drawers first?”

“Not usually,” John and Sarah reply, again in unison.

“Great minds,” Sarah grins. At John. And John chuckles back at her, though his voice is cold and his eyes hard when he answers Sherlock. “Sometimes you have to. Unexpected things happen when you’re dealing with _people_. Emergencies. Or you might need to consult with a colleague.”

“But we’re never gone for long, in those cases,” Sarah insists. “No more than a few minutes.” She looks to John for confirmation, and he nods, smiling. (Too warmly.) (Damn him.) (This is punishment.)

“Long enough for a light-fingered patient to help himself to a prescription pad,” Sherlock points out, icily, as he turns his attention to the window. (Concentrate on the case, not John.) Drawing the blind aside, he runs his fingers over the frame. It’s old, and thickly painted with gloss paint, but the surface is smooth, unchipped. The windows themselves are new (double-glazed) and lockable. There’s no sign of them having been forced open.

Sherlock lets the blind drop back into place, takes out his hand lens and crosses the room to investigate the medicines cabinet. To the naked eye, it looks pristine but under the lens, a single gouge (clean, no dust build-up, recent) across the surface of the (6-pin cylinder) stainless steel lock become visible. (A slip of the hand, no more.) (No less, either. Interesting.)

“This is the cabinet the drugs disappeared from?” Sherlock asks. “I presume, unlike the desk drawers, it _would_ have been kept locked all the time?”

In response to both questions, Sarah nods.

“This cabinet has only ever been opened with a key,” Sherlock tells her. “How many people would have had one?”

Sarah looks at him, aghast. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that whoever stole the drugs from this cabinet had a key and was well used to opening it. Who would fit that description? A doctor. From this practice. Therefore one of a limited number of people. Knowing exactly what that number is would considerably speed up the process of identifying the culprit.”

“Three,” Sarah replies, though she shakes her head disbelievingly. “John, Judy and me.”

“Well, I’m assuming that, as the head of the practice, it wasn’t you,” Sherlock goes on. “You wouldn’t have a strong enough motive, unless it were a cry for help. You’re not mentally unstable are you?”

John’s already hostile expression turns darker still. “ _She_ isn’t, no,” he mutters. “Which is more than can be said for some people.”

“In which case,” Sherlock continues, ignoring him, “your culprit was either John or Dr Fortescue.” (Obviously, it was Fortescue, but Sarah will be resistant to accepting a colleague she has known for some time could have done such a thing unless she is made to realize that the only other explanation is impossible.)

Sadly, John doesn’t see the brilliance of this approach and instead takes it as another personal attack. “Oh, right. I’ll confess now, shall I? Yes, it was me: I took the drugs. I took the drugs, Sarah, because I have dishonourable intentions towards my flatmate-”

Sarah laughs nervously. (She doesn’t understand.) “What? What are you tal-”

“Shut up,” Sherlock barks. “Shut up, both of you. I’m not saying it was John; I’m saying it was Judy Fortescue. She had the knowledge and the opportunity. There’s a scratch on the cabinet lock, a lock she opens on a regular basis, so her hand must have been shaking. Why would it shake? Because she felt guilty. Why was she feeling guilty? Because she was stealing. So, what does she do to cover up her guilt? She invents some story about a prowler - a prowler no-one else at the health centre ever saw.”

“But she’s a friend! She’s worked for me for years!” Sarah protests. “She’s always been great. Reliable, professional. Why would she do something like this now?”

“Good question,” Sherlock approves. “Her life has changed. She’s just had a baby. She might be suffering post-natal depression - post-natal psychosis even - but the odds are, as a friend, you’d have noticed. Besides, the theft was premeditated. She mentioned her ‘prowler’ _before_ the drugs disappeared. So, not post-natal depression: something else. It’s possible though unlikely she’s developed a drug habit herself - her child is two months old, she’s middle-class, probably breast-feeding, she’s a doctor - she’d know the risks involved - in which case, the answer is money. What do you know about her finances?”

Sarah frowns. “Her husband was made redundant just before she told me she was pregnant. He was a trader for a bank in the City, so it was a blow financially, but her salary is a good one. She was sure they’d manage.”

“A trader?” (The pieces are beginning to fall into place.) (There is more than one type of addiction. It’s not always drugs but the dependency can run just as deep.) Sherlock finds himself glancing at John, but John won’t look at him. “City trading is glorified gambling,” he declares. “With all the attendant highs and lows. It’s highly possible that, suddenly deprived of his professional fix, Fortescue’s husband would have sought it elsewhere. The difference being, this time the money was his own, not his company’s, and the losses, his to bear. With him out of work - for what? eight months? - and running up gambling debts, and a new baby to care for, whilst possibly still hormonally unbalanced herself, I’d say Dr Fortescue saw an easy way out of her difficulties and seized it.”

“You can’t possibly know that,” John says, though there’s a slight hesitation in his voice that makes it more of a question than a statement of fact.

“Oh dear,” Sarah says, sadly. (She can see the merit in this line of reasoning.) “She used to joke about him liking a flutter on the horses, and how you’d have thought he got enough of that at work. I suppose the police will have to be told.”

“They’re involved already,” Sherlock says. “And, at the moment, apparently prepared to believe the worst of John.”

Sarah nods grimly. “I’ll call them now.” She sighs. “It’s not the result I was hoping for, but thanks.”

“Glad to help,” Sherlock says (not untruthfully). (John will be grateful to be no longer under suspicion - and a grateful John might be a more forgiving one.) “Tell Lestrade to call if he needs anything.” He puffs out his chest a little and flashes John a smile. “Another case successfully concluded. Come on, let’s go.”

But, far from seeming grateful or even impressed, John folds his arms, and shifts his feet slightly apart. (Lowering his centre of gravity.) (He’s determined to stay where he is.) “No, thanks. I’ll make my own way back.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Me? I’m not the one who says stupid things.” (Oh hell. He’s not going to let it drop, is he?)

“Look,” Sherlock says, leaning in, and stooping down, so that his eyes are almost on a level with John’s. He drops his voice to an impatient hiss. “I was angry, all right? You accused me, and I … accused you back. We both said stupid things. Now, come on.” He seizes John’s arm. “Let’s go home.”

This close, John’s eyes are on fire. “You accused me of plotting to rape you,” he says coldly, prising Sherlock’s fingers off his sleeve. “It’s not even remotely equivalent. After everything, that it could even cross your mind …” His voice is getting louder, less in control. He screws his eyes shut, and his hands ball into fists. “Just go, Sherlock.”

“John-”

“I said: _go_.”

If he didn’t know it was all his own fault, Sherlock might argue. If Sarah wasn’t here, he might try to kiss the fury out of John.

As it is, he tosses his head contemptuously and leaves.

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

On Sherlock’s return to 221B, he finds the flat surprisingly dark and cold. The darkness is easily remedied - snapping on all four of the living room lamps floods it with light - but igniting the fire isn’t enough to bring instant warmth (the curse of rooms with high ceilings is that they take forever to heat up again once they’ve been allowed to grow cool), so instead of being able to adopt the pose of elegant indifference (reading, in an armchair) Sherlock was hoping John would find him in when he finally deigns to come home, he finds himself pacing the floor, his footsteps echoing hollowly whenever he treads off carpet onto bare boards.

The pacing burns off some of the nervous energy fizzing under his skin, though not all of it. (John is being ridiculous.) (Everyone says things they don’t really mean sometimes, especially when they’re under stress; he must know that.) (He’s blown the whole thing out of all proportion.) (It’s been a long day. Once he’s home, and has had something to eat, he’ll feel better.) (More reasonable.)

( _Is_ there anything to eat?) Sherlock goes into the kitchen to investigate. The fridge is empty, except for the still-lurking segment of upper arm, half a bottle of milk and a rind of cheese. A search of the cupboards is no more fruitful: there’s a tediously wholesome packet of oat-based cereal in one and a solitary packet of cheese and onion crisps in another. Not exactly the kind of meal to make a man whose feathers have been ruffled suddenly believe that all is right with the world. There’s only one thing for it: Sherlock will have to brave shopping again.

He heads straight for M&S. (The one on Oxford Street where John shops whenever he's feeling flush, or if it's what he calls 'a special occasion'.) (Because this is _definitely_ a special occasion.) It’s only when he gets there that the full horror of his situation hits him: he has no idea what he’s doing. There are endless rows of chilled cabinets, and hoards of ruthless, sharp-elbowed shoppers, who think nothing of shoving him aside as he stands helplessly trying to make sense of labels urging “Count on Us!” and “Dine In for £10!” After a third trolley rams him (this time in the Achilles tendon), he’s had enough. He snatches up a couple of packs (promisingly?) labelled ‘Gastropub’, then a couple more, before whipping a bottle of red from a carousel and heading for the tills. Mindful of John’s experience with chip and pin machines, he opts for a checkout operated by an actual human being, then rushes home again.

Only to discover he’s bought caramel roast parsnips, pub-style chunky chips, fresh pasta, and asparagus with lemon butter.

He paces about some more, growing more agitated by the minute, as he considers his other options. There aren’t many of them. In fact, if he rules out changing the locks or running away to sea, there’s probably only one: an apology. He takes himself to the bathroom to practice in front of the mirror.

Five minutes later, it’s blindingly obvious it’s not going to work. The right words won’t come. No matter what tone of voice he uses, nor what facial expression he tries, “Sorry” sounds too little and “Please forgive me” far too much. He growls at his reflection in frustration. (What on earth is the point of knowing the difference between the past participles of the verb ‘to hang’, if you can’t express genuine regret?)

(And what on earth is the point in being the world’s first and only consulting detective if you can’t work out how to convince your one and only friend you weren’t thinking when you said … that thing?)

Irritated and impatient, he flings himself down onto the settee, only to instantly sit bolt upright again.

(Oh! Of course!)

Concentrating furiously, Sherlock draws his knees up, and tucks his feet under him. There _is_ a way, after all. A way to prove that he didn’t mean it. That his trust in John is absolute.

Having reached a (perfectly logical) decision, he’s eager to put it into practice, but long minutes drag by without John returning home, followed by long minutes more. It’s a surprise to discover, on checking his watch, that it’s still only six fifty-five. That’s the trouble with winter, he reflects: night falls too soon, distorting your perception of the passage of time, stretching seconds into minutes, minutes into hours.

At quarter past eight, the front door downstairs opens. The sound of it closing again and of John’s inexorable ascent of the stairs makes Sherlock’s heart thud, and his skin sprout goose pimples. (Oh god, oh god, oh god.) (Am I really going to do this?) ( _Yes_.) (It doesn’t matter to me, but it means the world to him.)

The door opens and John walks in. ( _Wobbles_ in.) His eyes have an odd gleam to them, and his gait is not quite steady. Sherlock experiences a flash of anger. After all his fretting and painful decision-making, the idea that John might be the worse for drink and thus not clear-headed enough to appreciate the grand gesture that Sherlock is about to make him is infuriating.

“Where’ve you been?” Sherlock demands, irritably.

“Out.”

John’s blunt evasion is like a red rag to a bull. Sherlock jumps up from the settee, vaults the coffee table and strides across the room to glare down at him. “You’re drunk,” he accuses, temper flaring higher.

There’s a hard edge to John’s voice as he replies, “No, I’m not”, and he turns his back on Sherlock to remove his coat.

Sherlock spins him around again. “You’re drunk,” he insists, smelling beer and whisky. He leans in closer and sniffs. (A malt. One that smells of peat-smoke and seaweed. Lagavulin!) And then his eye falls on a single strand of long, brown hair, caught on John’s sleeve. “You’ve been drinking beer and whisky _with Sarah_.” He can see it now: the two of them, snuggled up together on a plush seat in some dimly lit pub, gazing tipsily into each other’s eyes and laughing. His stomach churns. “Did you kiss her?”

“No!” John cries, and it’s not so much the word that’s convincing, as the shocked tone it’s said in. (As if the idea hadn’t even occurred to him.)

The relief is immense, but finding himself in the wrong (again) throws Sherlock off-balance and it takes him a while to compose himself. “Good,” he nods, eventually, straightening his jacket. “Good.” And before John can say anything else, he takes a deep breath, and blurts it out - his offer, his apology. “John, we should have sex. Now. Tonight.”

John’s whole body jerks and he nearly drops the coat he’s still trying to hang up. (Surprise.) He shakes his head, as if he’s been swimming and is trying to dislodge water from his ears (disbelief), then turns, scowling. “ _What_ did you say?” (He thinks he’s being played. Tormented. Teased.)

Sherlock grabs his hands, both of them, and squeezes. “We should have sex.”

But John isn’t an idiot, and immediately he smells a rat. “Why now? Why today?”

(Because it’s dark and I’m cold, and I thought you might never come home.) (Because I say vicious things when I’m cornered.) (Because I’d be lost without you.)

“Can’t I just want to?” he tries, with his best winning smile.

John’s expression softens a little but he remains unconvinced, so Sherlock takes advantage of the hold he has on his hands to pull him closer and kiss him but John refuses to reciprocate, standing sullenly unresponsive as Sherlock teases at his lips with his tongue, and tries to get him to open his mouth. (Why can’t he see the logic of this?) (Good god - after all this time, has he changed his mind?)

Sherlock pulls away. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to sleep with you just because you’re feeling guilty.”

Sherlock very nearly laughs. (Of _course_ John hasn’t changed his mind; he just doesn’t want to shoulder all the responsibility for it.) (He wants the desire to be mutual.) (He needs a touch of aggression, insistence, an order or two.) Sherlock yanks him closer again and, tugging on a handful of hair to drag his head back, he kisses him hard, forcing him to yield. It works better than he expected and this time John’s arms quickly come up to wind around his neck, and his whole body presses against him.

Even whisky-flavoured, the kissing is wonderful - and when Sherlock experimentally cups John’s backside with both hands and rolls his hips, the noises John makes are more than enough to make him hard. (Perhaps it’ll be okay, after all.) (Or, at least, not actively horrible.)

“Your room,” Sherlock manages, when they break apart. (John’s room is neater; his bed is probably made.) (Also, it will be easier to get away from him. Afterwards.) “Your room now.”

“Sherlock, if you’re pissing about …”

“I’m not,” Sherlock insists, and pushes him toward the staircase.

Half-way up it, John trips on a step. The near-fall makes him giggle (he may not be _drunk_ , but he’s certainly not sober), and when he reaches the landing, he has trouble opening his door. (He’s drunker than he thinks.)

Sherlock follows John in and removes his jacket, eyeing John’s three-foot wide single bed dubiously. (Will we both fit?) (Side by side?) (Will we even _be_ side by side?)

John is looking doubtful too, so before he can be noble and swear yet again that he doesn’t mind waiting, Sherlock seizes the bottom of his jumper (cable-knit, off-white, soft to the touch but good quality and strong) and tugs it up over his head. There are a couple of awkward moments as John struggles to free his arms, but when at last his face emerges, he’s grinning, hair all over the place.

“You don’t ever do anything by halves, do you?” he laughs.

Sherlock gives an impatient snort. “What would be the point of that? Take your shirt off.”

John’s hands move automatically to his top button but suddenly he stops, and reaches for Sherlock’s instead. “I think I’d rather take _yours_ off,” he murmurs into the skin on Sherlock’s chest as the shirt starts to come undone. His breath is warm, a welcome contrast to the coldness of the flat, and Sherlock closes his eyes at the pleasure of it, unresisting as John’s fingers move on to the next button, and the next, until every last one of them is unfastened.

Parting the two sides of Sherlock’s shirt but making no attempt to remove it, John nuzzles into Sherlock’s breastbone and dots it with light kisses (it’s okay, nothing to panic about) (it’s _John_ ), and his hands roam softly across Sherlock’s chest, bringing more heat to his chilled skin, as they trace the outline of his ribs and the underside of his pectorals. It’s slow, and soothing, and Sherlock is finding it easier to tolerate than he anticipated - right up until the moment John’s mouth closes around one of his nipples and his tongue begins to flick, and lick, and rub.

Sherlock gasps, assaulted by too much sensation. It tickles unbearably - not just in the nipple itself but along some electric pathway that shoots straight to his groin too, unleashing a tide of rampant, unreasonable desire. He wants to push John off. To pull him closer. To open himself up. To run away. For it to stop. For it to never end. He doesn’t know what he wants. Nothing. Everything.

His mouth opens, his throat too, and his head falls back even as his body arches into John’s. And all the while, some distant part of his brain is laughing at him, calling him an idiot for not having deduced it sooner. (It’s not the prospect of not liking sex that’s terrifying; it’s the dread of liking it too much.)

“John-” he pants, struggling for control.

“Nice?” John purrs, smugly.

(’Nice’? What a feeble, insipid way of describing it!) (It’s astonishing. Breathtaking. Devastating.) Unfortunately, it also seems to have robbed Sherlock of the ability to speak and all he can do is give a guttural, half-starved grunt by way of reply. Encouraged nonetheless, John moves on to suck at his other nipple, but as he does so, cold air hits the wet skin skin left behind, and Sherlock shudders with shock.

(It was dark. I was wet, shuddering from cold.) (He said he could warm me up. And then he …)

The tang of salt air fills Sherlock’s nostrils, and the sensation of wet sand tugs at his ankles, as the hated memory surfaces again. He pushes it ruthlessly back down. He’s not a kid any more, and he’s far from helpless.

Short moments later, he has John on his back on the bed, trousers and underpants pulled down to his knees, and the thick, blood-flushed length of his penis exposed. Stretching out beside him pins him conveniently against the wall, enhancing Sherlock’s sense of control of the situation; closing his hand around John’s straining erection completes it.

With a shiver, John pulls him closer and kisses him, moaning into Sherlock’s mouth when Sherlock strokes harder, and gripping at Sherlock’s shoulders tightly, as if to brace himself against his body’s desperate need to move and thrust.

And then John unzips Sherlock’s trousers.

If it were possible to levitate, Sherlock would be doing just that, rising on thermal of pure terror, excitement and shame. And if John hadn’t been drinking, perhaps he’d notice. As it is, he’s too intent on freeing Sherlock from his underpants.

"No," John murmurs, as Sherlock instinctively tries to stop him. "Let me look at you. Please."

Reluctantly, rigid with the need to hide, Sherlock forces himself to suffer John moving away a little, though he can’t help clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut at the feel of John's gaze raking slowly down his body.

"Bloody hell," John says at last, his voice soft, surprised and full of awe. "There isn't a single bit of you that isn't gorgeous, is there?"

"What?" John’s words are so unexpected, Sherlock can’t make sense of them.

"I'm saying that you have an absolutely bloody perfect cock," John smiles.

Sherlock opens his eyes and blinks at him. He's never thought of himself as having a 'cock'. It's always been a _penis_ : an anatomical necessity, kept in its place by an objectively distancing and Latin-based biological term. 'Cock' conjures something else entirely, something earthy and bent on pleasure. Something predatory and male.

But when John's fingers close around him, nowhere near tightly enough, Sherlock realizes that he does indeed have a cock after all, one that's every bit as animal and unthinking as the beast it borrows the name from, and he hears himself groan, as his hips stutter into movement (oh god, oh god, oh god).

Taking the hint, John starts to stroke him, pulling lightly, but using a rhythm that’s nothing like Sherlock’s own; it’s erratic and unpredictable, leisurely one moment, intense the next, and Sherlock can’t keep pace with it, can’t keep himself under control or respond appropriately at all. How can he be expected to stay calm and collected, with pleasure radiating out from the movement of John’s hand into every fibre of his body, into every weak and sensation-greedy nerve, almost but not quite enough, leaving him desperate for more. How can he be expected to keep quiet when his throat is aching with the need to beg John to hold him tighter, to go faster. To work him until he can’t think any more, until he can’t even breathe.

Head reeling, treacherous body still craving more, Sherlock twists away, leaving John’s open mouth to smear wetly across his cheek as he seizes the hand on his penis - on his _cock_ \- by the wrist and drags it off, wrestling a bit when John instantly tries to regain his hold. He plants his other hand flat against John’s chest and shoves, keeping him back, because the prospect of John watching him climax, of John having that much power over him, is nauseating. This was supposed to have been about John’s pleasure, not his own.

“No. Stop. _Enough_.”

It comes out far more breathlessly than Sherlock intended, and John doesn’t believe it at first. “It’s okay,” he soothes, cupping Sherlock’s cheek in his hand, and running a thumb over his lower lip, as he tries to press his groin to Sherlock’s. “You just need to relax.”

“No - _you_ need to _stop_ ,” Sherlock replies, forcing ice into his tone. “ _Now_.”

At last realization dawns. Sherlock sees it hit the back of John’s eyes, and watches him flinch and recoil. “Sherlock-”

“Get off me.”

“I was going too fast,” John bargains. “We’ll take it slower.”

“No.”

“You’re just nervous because it’s your first time,” John reasons, snaking an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders again. “Honestly, it’ll be okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“No. It was a stupid idea in the first place,” Sherlock says, trying to get off the bed and stand. “I told you this wasn’t my area.”

“It was a _great_ idea,” John assures him, holding on tight. “Look, Sherlock, whatever it was that happened-”

“You can fix it? No. You can’t. I don’t want you to.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying-”

“Yes, I do.” Twisting violently again, Sherlock tries again to breaks free of John’s embrace, but John won’t let  go.

So Sherlock punches him. Not hard (the angle is all wrong to put any weight behind it) but on the jaw and deliberately. Then, taking advantage of John’s shock, he rolls away from him, off the bed and onto the floor.

Almost instantly, John is down on the ground with him, straddling him, gripping his wrists so hard as he forces them to the floor that Sherlock’s sure he’s going to leave bruises.

For a moment, they just stare at each other, shaking and breathing heavily.

“This is your idea of fixing me, is it?” Sherlock demands. “Forgive me, Doctor, if I don’t think it’s much cop.”

“You _punched_ me,” John replies between gritted teeth.

Sherlock glares at him. “Because you wouldn’t let go. Are you going to let go _now_?”

The angry set of John’s mouth relaxes and he bites his lip. “Sherlock ...”

Sherlock doesn’t think he’s ever heard his name spoken more sadly, nor more tenderly. Summoning all his strength, he tightens the muscles in both arms and shoves. John’s grasp on his wrists fails and John himself falls to one side, only righting himself at the last minute and after Sherlock has managed to wriggle out from under him.

“I’m sorry,” John says, getting awkwardly to his feet and trying not to trip on his undone, falling-down trousers.

Sherlock has already pulled up his own, and is refastening his flies. “Forget it. Forget _this_. Go and have sex with someone else. Someone who actually wants it. Sarah. Or one of Mycroft’s ‘personal assistants’. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind lending you one.”

John takes a step nearer but this time makes no attempt to touch Sherlock. “I don’t want any of them,” he says sadly. “I want _you_.”

He looks so miserable that Sherlock wants to hold him and kiss him, but he doesn’t, because now he knows how hopeless it is. He can’t ever give John what he wants without losing control of himself. It’s impossible.

He crosses the room to the door, and pauses, hand tight around the cold, metal handle.

“Yes, well,” he says (because it’s like pulling off a plaster: the faster you do it, the less it hurts) (the _kinder_ it is, in the long run), “the thing is, I don’t want you.”

And before John can answer, he steps out onto the landing and closes the door firmly behind him.


	5. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock sets out to prove a man convicted of murder is innocent, the case raises questions about love and trust. Questions to which Sherlock thinks he finds answers when John leaps to his defence.

**  
_January 30th_  
**

 

After last night, after pushing John away at the very last moment, Sherlock has prepared himself for any number of reactions - from long-suffering silence to outright hostility - so, of course, John does something he _wasn't_ expecting: he brings him a cup of tea in bed and the Sunday papers. Sherlock stares at them in disbelief as John sets them down on the floor.

“Morning.” John’s tone is deliberately light (although there’s too much emphasis on the second syllable for it to be genuinely cheery), and his body language (a quick step back before standing his ground) is wary but hopeful. “Thought you might like some tea.”

“Evidently.” Sherlock pulls himself up into a sitting position. John is in his room. Uninvited. And he’s fully dressed, whereas Sherlock is in nothing but thin pyjamas - pyjamas which cling in the most revealing way, particularly first thing in the morning. Sherlock pulls the duvet closer to his body, fluffing it up as he does so, to ensure that’s it’s thick and concealing.

For a moment, John says nothing, then he smiles (all soft eyes and raised brows) and asks gently, “Are you all right?”

(Ah! So _this_ is how he’s going to deal with it! He’s decided against anger in favour of pity.) The incipient guilt that’s been threatening to overwhelm Sherlock all night evaporates. “Fine,” he says crisply. “You?”

John’s smile turns rueful. “Well, I’ve been better,” he admits, “but I’ll live. I just wanted to know that _you_ were okay.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says again, through gritted teeth. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he wishes he hadn’t said them, because John will surely use them as an excuse to talk about last night, but he doesn’t. He just nods slowly. “Good. That’s good. Well, then, I’ll, uh, leave you to it.”

Sherlock watches him go, picking his way carefully across the floor, neatly avoiding scattered clothing and papers and plastic containers. (How does he do that? How can he fall apart one minute, then spring back together again so neatly afterwards? How can he climax with such abandon and then return to being so perfectly _John_? As though nothing had happened at all?) It makes Sherlock wonder what it would take to rob him of that ability, because it’s one he doesn’t have himself. Even now, there’s an odd ache in the centre of his chest, and his palms are tingling with the memory of how surprisingly solid John’s arms feel under the softness of that particular jumper. Meanwhile, under the duvet, his … _cock_ twitches regretfully.

(Damn it all to hell.)

Sherlock reaches for his tea and sits sipping it, flicking through the newspaper in an attempt to distract himself.

At first there seems to be nothing of interest, or even amusement, (it’s a broadsheet - what on earth was John thinking? Tabloids are the place to find the best gossip) but eventually, in amongst the politics-heavy articles and adverts for expensive cars (good god, Mycroft’s next vehicle is going to cost the tax-payer), Sherlock’s eye alights on something more promising: the lurid account of a murder trial, complete with photographs of the murderer, the victim and murderer’s wife.

_On Friday, Richard Stratton (59) formerly one of the UK’s leading athletics coaches was found guilty of the murder of promising young 800 metres runner Jeanette Church (17) and sentenced to life imprisonment. Miss Church was found dead at her parents’ home in Dulwich Village. She had been drugged, sexually assaulted and suffocated. Stratton vigorously denied culpability throughout the trial, but was convicted on DNA and forensics evidence which placed him at the scene of the crime. Outside the court, his wife Karen (35) claimed that she was with her husband at the time of the murder and said she would be supporting his appeal against the conviction. A spokesman for the Metropolitan Police said the DNA evidence was incontrovertible and that they were confident the appeal would be rejected. Stratton will serve his sentence at HMP Wandsworth._

The photograph of Stratton is predictably unflattering, lit from beneath so his eyes gleam out maniacally from the dark shadows cast by a looming forehead. (Can’t have a convicted murderer looking like a normal person. Oh no, he has to be captured looking thuggish and insane.) Meanwhile, his victim is pictured in a way that emphasises how young she was (this photo is an old one, taken in her early teens), with bright light falling on her fair hair and clear complexion, giving the overall impression of an angel. Next to her, Mrs Stratton has the sharp features, coiffed hair and brittle smile typical of a standard issue trophy wife. From the report and the photographs, it’s all too easy to deduce the sordid sequence of events that preceded the court case: middle aged man, bored with the wife he married for her (now Botox-ed) looks, seeks younger model. Younger model spurns his advances, a scuffle ensues and, in an attempt to silence her screams, middle-aged man kills her.

(Tedious.)

Sherlock tosses the paper aside and turns on his laptop instead.

All his favourite news websites are carrying the same story, though with added speculation regarding Mr Stratton’s bedroom proclivities ( _“UK’s most successful coach liked it rough!” “Stratton strangled his way to sexual satisfaction!”_ ). One even has video footage of Stratton leaving the court and being pushed into a prison wagon, whilst in the foreground his wife is being interviewed by eager journalists. Sherlock clicks the _Play_ button.

“My husband is completely innocent,” Mrs Stratton insists, brown eyes locked on the camera. They're strange eyes - mismatched in size, one slightly higher than the other, although each is perfectly acceptable on its own in terms of shape, colour and distribution of lashes - and something stirs in Sherlock’s memory as she goes on. “He would never do such a-” Her voice falters (perfectly), before she draws a breath and continues (again, perfectly), “-such a terrible thing.”

“What about the evidence?” the interviewer asks. “The police seem to think there is no denying it.”

Mrs Stratton’s beautifully glossy lower lip trembles. “There must … must have been a mistake,” she says slowly. “I was with him all night.”

The video stops abruptly and the _Replay_ button overlies Mrs Stratton’s distraught features. Sherlock stares at her for a long moment. There’s something familiar about the woman, something beyond the trophy wife look, but he can’t put his finger on it. He springs out of bed and dresses hastily. The internet is all well and good for current events, but for older items - older, significant items - one must have recourse to paper. Sherlock hurries into the living room.

**  
_An hour later_  
**

 

Sherlock is sitting on the living room carpet, old newspapers and scrapbooks full of cuttings strewn about him. He’s been hunting through them with growing impatience as the clue he’s seeking continues to elude him, whilst the name Carl Powers plays on a constant loop at the back of his mind. There’s a link between the Powers case and Karen Stratton, he’s sure, but he can’t find it. (What was it? Another murder? Another disappearance?)

A sudden draught of air lifts the sea of papers in a fluttering wave, and Sherlock looks up angrily to find John, hovering in the doorway, staring in horror at what Sherlock has to concede is a scene of apparent and extreme chaos.

“Close the door,” he snaps, as the front page of a vintage copy of _The Daily Mirror_ takes flight and glides perilously close to the fire.

Still staring, John shuts the door. He’s changed out of the clothes he was wearing earlier and into his ugly tracksuit. Along with the hideous outfit, his red and sweaty face announce the fact that he’s been out for yet another morning run.

“I’d have thought you got enough of that yesterday,” Sherlock comments, as he reassembles the newspapers.

“Nowhere near enough,” John replies. “You should try it yourself, you know. Nothing like exercise first thing in the morning!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’ll take your word for it.”

John drops to his haunches beside him, and scans the scattered papers with interest. “What are you doing?”

Close up, he smells of fresh sweat - a seductive mix of spice (cumin, black pepper, a whiff of clove) and heat - and Sherlock’s belly tightens unhelpfully in response to it. He swallows, keeping his own gaze fixed firmly on the papers too. “Work.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“No.”

“There must be _something_ I can do,” John insists, leaning in.

“You could go away and let me concentrate,” Sherlock mutters. (Hostility would have been so much easier to deal with than _this_.)

John flinches minutely, then straightens up. “Okay. I need a shower anyway.” Sherlock’s treacherous brain instantly supplies him with a vivid visual that would make him squirm if he weren't so practised at hiding his feelings. “Here.” John drops a copy of the _Sunday News_ onto Sherlock’s lap. “I realize you’re probably too busy, but when I was out, I remembered you prefer the tabloids.”

He’s so thoughtful, so unbearably kind, that Sherlock could scream. Or punch something. Instead, he sits frozen, until he hears John close the bathroom door, followed by the distant buzz of the shower.

(John. Naked. Wet.)

( _No._ )

In desperation, Sherlock unfolds the _Sunday News_. A rather more benign portrait of Richard Stratton beams up at him. _Is this the face of evil?_ the paper asks. (Rhetorically.) (The reader is being strongly steered towards that conclusion.) Underneath the photograph, the text provides a simple outline of the murder trial, ending with an exhortation to turn to Page 3 for analysis of the DNA evidence. Sherlock’s attention, however, is waylaid by a side column, headed by what he now realizes is a blurred image of Karen Stratton. Quickly, he skims the accompanying copy.

_Sunday News Exclusive! Stratton’s wife caught on CCTV camera at a club on the night of the Church murder. Perjury proceedings may follow! Security cameras at the Paradise Lane nightclub in Hammersmith have revealed that Karen Stratton did not spend the night of August 12th with her husband as she claimed at his trial, but dancing with friends at the local night spot …_

Sherlock stops reading - data, he needs more data - and crawls on all fours over the scattered newspapers towards the cupboard under the television where he keeps his oldest material, the newspaper clippings he collected as a boy. Throwing the doors open, he traces a finger down the age-worn, tattered spines, head filling with memories of the cases within the scrapbooks, the cases that inspired his calling. Near the bottom of the pile, he finds what he’s looking for: 1989. He withdraws the book carefully and leafs delicately through it until it opens at the double-page spread on Carl Powers’ death. _A brilliant athletic future cut tragically short._ But it’s not Carl Powers that Sherlock is looking for; it’s the list of other young athletes tipped for participation in the 1992 Olympic games in Barcelona. And there she is: Karen Stratton (née Ford, apparently) - 100-metre hurdler. A shiver goes up Sherlock’s spine.

There’s more to the Stratton case than meets the eye.

He reaches for his laptop again, and calls up the _Sunday News_ website. More video footage. This time of a nightclub. Groups of people dancing. The lighting is poor and the camera angle fixed (a perennial problem with CCTV surveillance) but the faces are just about discernible: a man with a beard in profile, facing left; a woman with spiked, orange hair in profile, facing right; and then, face on to the camera, Karen Stratton dances into view. And stays there for a full two minutes, occasionally turning her head to the left and right, so that there’s no mistaking her identity.

(She _wanted_ to be recognized.)

The sound of softly approaching footsteps announces that John has finished his shower (but hasn’t put his shoes back on). Despite himself, Sherlock looks up to check. The tracksuit has been discarded in favour of jeans and that infuriatingly touchable jumper John was wearing earlier.

John pads over.

“Careful!” Sherlock warns, gathering up the papers in his immediate path.

“The Stratton case?” John asks, glancing around. “You think there was something wrong with the verdict?”

“Not at all.”

John frowns. “Then why-” He breaks off, indicating the carpet of newspapers and scrapbooks with a wave of his hand.

“I don’t _think _there was something wrong, John,” Sherlock tells him. “I _know_.”__

“How?” John asks, hands on his thighs as he bends forward for a closer look at the papers.

Sherlock bristles. (John’s jeans fit him perfectly, and that jumper is almost criminal. The rich colour of it, the texture.) “You know what I do,” he sniffs. “You tell me.”

“So you can take the piss again?” John gives a harsh laugh. “I don’t think so.”

Sherlock lets out a long sigh. “It’s absurdly simple. A child could manage it. But if you’re sure you really can’t-” He pauses, but John refuses to take the bait, folding his arms defiantly across his chest. “Mrs Stratton’s alibi was the central plank in her husband’s defence. The only plank, if you discount his supposed watching of _Million Dollar Baby_ on Channel 5. Which you have to. The film is an old one. He could have seen it any number of times other than on the night in question. Which leaves Mrs Stratton’s presence in the house as his only line of defence. And yet Mrs Stratton made a point of not only appearing on CCTV but also of ensuring that she was recognisable.”

John frowns. “Wait … you mean, she wanted his alibi to fail?”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock deadpans. “Your run has clearly done you good - you’re on sparkling form.”

“You should try it,” John replies sweetly. “It might stop you being a git. What do we do now?”

“We?”

“Yes, _we_ ,” John says. “Look, I want to help, okay? And we make a good team.”

(He’s _impossible_.) (Why isn’t he resentful? Furious?) (Is this more of his blasted pity?)

“Just what kind of help do you imagine you provide?” Sherlock sneers because the last thing he wants is pity. (Had enough of that from Mycroft, over the years, thanks very much.) “When you consistently fail to pick up on even the most glaringly obvious clue?”

Nostrils quivering and the corners of his mouth tightening, John inhales noisily, like a bull about to charge (At last! His patience has finally snapped!) but when he speaks his voice is completely even and controlled. “I tell you what - you’re the deductive genius. Why don’t you try doing without me for a while and see if you can work it out?” He terminates the challenge with an on-off smile and walks calmly away.

He doesn’t even slam the living room door behind him on his way out.

Sherlock lets him go. He’s relieved, really - triumphant, even; he was beginning to think he’d have to suffer John’s gentle concern for the rest of his life - and he turns determinedly back to his research. (Interesting stuff. Who knew there were sports gossip sites as well as the plethora of celebrity ones?) (Athletic fans don’t think much of Karen Stratton either: she’s universally described as a “frosty cow”. The fans are pretty scathing the state of her marriage too.)

Sherlock digs in a pocket for his phone, only to remember it’s still in his room. Fortunately, John’s is on the coffee table. He snatches it up and punches in Lestrade’s number.

Text: Stratton verdict wrong. SH.

A minute later and Sherlock’s own phone is ringing, forcing him to return to his bedroom to answer it.

“What d’you mean ‘wrong’?” Lestrade asks, wearily.

“I mean it was incorrect. Erroneous. Mistaken. _Wrong_.”

“But all the evidence pointed-”

“No, not _all_ the evidence. Just enough of it to for you to jump to an easy conclusion.”

“We found _semen_ , Sherlock. Fingerprints, text messages - the lot.”

“Who was on forensics?”

“I don’t see how-”

“It was Anderson, wasn’t it? Well, that explains everything. You should have called me in, Lestrade.”

“You wouldn’t have come. It was an open and shut case, and you’re only ever interested in the weird ones.”

“Well, I’m interested now. First off, I’ll need to talk to Stratton. Tomorrow.”

Lestrade sighs. “Don’t tell me you want me to phone Wandsworth?”

“If you’d be so kind. Oh, and I’ll need the files.”

“But they’re-”

“D’you want my help or not?” Sherlock demands, and quickly ends the call before Lestrade can be boring about ‘confidentiality’ and ‘accountability’.

There’s a lot to do, a lot of background information Sherlock needs before interviewing Stratton, but now he settles down to looking for it, he realizes he’s got used to passing this kind of chore over to John (John doesn’t mind routine tasks, they don’t make him want to climb the walls - or fire bullets into them); and when Sherlock contemplates the prospect of unutterably dull taxi rides across London alone, he realizes how much he’s come to rely on John being with him. (He’s a valuable sounding board.) (And amusing company.)

Sherlock gazes at the scattered papers for while, as if one of them might suddenly provide an alternative solution to his dilemma, but eventually he has to admit to himself that he doesn’t want to pursue the case on his own. He wants John there too - hanging on his every word and not even _trying_ to hide his admiration.

He carefully replaces his scrapbooks and papers in the cupboard, giving himself time to get accustomed to the idea, then mounts the stairs to John’s room and raps once on the (closed) door.

“Go away.”

Sherlock opens the door. John is seated at his desk, laptop open in front of him, fingers moving methodically over the keys. Sherlock wonders if he’s writing his blog, if the world at large is going to be treated to yet another waspish insight into his personal failings alongside the stories extolling his brilliance. (Which case is it likely to be? The Blackshaw Murder? A cold-blooded killer forces the apparently cold-hearted detective to reveal his softer side when his colleague gets injured? Or the Surgery Thefts? Mistakes over motivation leads to disastrous sexual encounter?) Sherlock shudders at the thought, and draws himself up taller as he leans (casually) against the door frame.

“You want to help,” he says, pitching his inflection part-way between a question and an accusation.

“I’m busy,” John replies curtly, not looking up.

“You want to help, but I annoyed you so now you’re sulking,” Sherlock persists. “Are you expecting an apology?”

John swivels round in his seat. “D’you know how to make one?”

Sherlock pauses, considering. “Probably not,” he admits at last, with a small smile.

“ _Definitely_ not,” John amends sternly, before his face splits into a grin and he laughs.

Sherlock laughs too. “So, will you help?”

John sighs and shuts his computer. “You know I will.”

The desire to hug him is immense, but Sherlock resists it manfully. “Good,” he says, nodding and forcing his expression to remain neutral. “Good. You can start by getting as much information as you can on Karen Ford.”

* * * * * * * *

After more than an hour poring over his computer, John leans back in his chair and stretches, rolling his head from side to side and groaning as his spine makes audible clicks.

“Find something?” Sherlock asks, looking up from his own researches into polymerase chain reactions and gene amplification technology.

John runs a hand through his hair. (He’s frustrated. Tired.) “Not much. She did really well at club level and got picked for the British athletics team at the start of 1991 but was dropped later in the year. A couple of the tabloids mention 'an incident' but not much else. Just that the decision was split and the selection committee chairman had the casting. After that she disappeared for a bit, then in 1996 she opened a sports equipment shop in Leicester - her home town - but it failed and she went bankrupt in early 1998. After that, there’s nothing. And before you ask,” he adds, with a defensive little wobble of the head, “yes, I did check the register of births, death and marriages.

“Very good, John,” Sherlock acknowledges. “Except that’s impossible.”

John makes an impatient summoning gesture. “Come and have a look yourself, then, if you don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say that I didn’t believe you - just that it’s impossible. She married Richard Stratton. She _has_ to be on the register.”

“Perhaps she’d married before and had a different name … no, wait, she _didn’t_ marry before. I’ve just checked that!”

Sherlock leans forward in his chair, pressing his fingertips together and tapping his forefingers against his lips. “So?”

“She used a different name,” John says slowly. “But she’d need proof of identity, so it couldn’t just be an alias … Deed poll! She changed her name by deed poll!”

He looks so pleased with himself, Sherlock can’t help smiling. “Exactly. The question is: why?”

John points a finger at him. "You've got a theory."

“Well, she might simply have wanted to shake off her creditors,” Sherlock offers. (John appreciates a bit of a build-up before the final revelation.)

“Or ...” John prompts, happily playing along.

“I think she had other reasons for becoming someone else, John. Reasons that were a lot more sinister."

"To do with the 'incident'?" John frowns, and Sherlock can see he's thinking the worst.

"It's too early to say," Sherlock tells him. "I need more data."

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

__  
**January 31st**  


 

It’s a seven-mile drive from Baker Street to Wandsworth prison - a drive which, in theory, should only take twenty minutes. In practice, a combination of road works and afternoon rush hour traffic (neither of which Lestrade can have taken into consideration when fixing their appointment with Stratton) means the journey is taking much, much longer.

Sherlock has been trying to make the best of it by thinking about the case but, unfortunately, his thoughts keep straying to John, and no matter how hard he tries to stop them, one minute he’s picturing him in the bathroom sink, wrists tied to the taps, and the next recalling how horrifyingly wonderful it felt to have John’s hand wrapped around his erection and pulling slowly …

“You all right?” John asks, out of the blue. “You’re not coming down with flu are you?”

The sudden question jolts Sherlock back to reality with a start. “What?”

“You’re looking a bit flushed,” John explains.

“Must be this taxi,” Sherlock replies, grasping at straws, “it’s like a sauna.”

“Yeah,” John agrees, running a finger around the inside of his collar. “It really is.”

They fall silent again for a while, but this time Sherlock doesn’t dare allow his mind to wander, and instead focuses it determinedly on the case.

“The time of death was eleven thirty-five …” he muses, hoping that saying the words out loud will help his thoughts to clear.

Not unreasonably, John assumes the remark was directed at him. “It’s a tricky thing,” he says, “establishing the exact time of death. There are so many variables. To be honest, it’s as much an art as a science.”

The comment is enough to make Sherlock congratulate himself on having had the sense to allow John to accompany him, and he duly does. “Go on,” he says, listening intently.

“Well, there’s rigor mortis of course, but its progression can be affected by temperature. Then there’s core body temperature too, but that’s not much use unless the body is discovered fairly quickly after death.”

“You’re saying that Jeanette Church’s time of death might be incorrect?”

John shrugs. “It could be. Though probably only by an hour or two.”

“And yet Anderson was so sure,” Sherlock scoffs. “You saw the newspaper reports.”

“The time of death doesn’t really matter though, does it?” John asks. “They had all that forensic evidence-”

“Something doesn’t add up, John,” Sherlock interrupts.

“Like what?”

Sherlock grins. “Haven’t a clue.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Wandsworth Prison (pale gault bricks, stone dressings, Italianate styling) might present a less forbidding aspect, Sherlock thinks, stepping down from the taxi, if it lost the out-of-proportion arched gateway and the solid, blank gate. As it is, the building squats malevolently under the almost-dark, London sky - utilitarian and unwelcoming. Sherlock and John make their way across the tarmacked car park to be admitted though a side entrance. Security checks completed (rub down, photo ID, metal detector) and valuables (money and phones) handed over, they follow an amiably helpful warder inside the building.

Sherlock has never been inside Wandsworth before; with its blank corridors, tiered rows of cells and vaulted ceiling, it reminds him of a Victorian hospital (is John thinking the same thing?) - only without the medicinal smell. Here, instead of the astringency of antiseptic, there’s a musky odour of male bodies, underlain by a rubbery smokiness.

They pass through one block, then take a sharp turn left into another, almost identical one, the only obvious difference being a change in the colour of paint used on the lower section of the walls (from pale green, to pale blue). Apart from the sound of their own footsteps striking the linoleum flooring and the jingle of the warder’s key, the only sounds are the hum of electricity and the occasional low rumble of voices. It’s a depressing, oppressive atmosphere and Sherlock is again pleased he decided to let John tag along. The place would be gloomier still without him.

Suddenly, they’re going through double security doors again, and out into the cold January afternoon. A light sleet is falling now; droplets glisten briefly on John’s hair then melt away.

“Had to move him to the Onslow Centre,” the warder is explaining. “Across the way here.”

(Onslow Centre: the vulnerable prisoners unit.) (Of course.)

Stratton is sitting at a table in the visitor’s room. He looks terrible: grey-faced, with dark circles under his eyes. He’s unshaven, his hair is uncombed, and there’s a blue-edged, red mark on his right cheekbone. (He’s been punched in the face, and recently.)

“Are you police?” he asks, as Sherlock and John walk over to his table and sit down opposite him, chair legs scraping painfully over the uncarpeted floor. “Lawyers?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then who are you?” Stratton’s already haunted expression turns a little wild, and he darts a glance at the warder, as if appealing for protection.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock tells him. “And this is my … colleague, Dr John Watson. We’re here to help. If you’ll let us.”

A light comes on in Stratton’s dull eyes and he almost leaps up from his seat. The warder yells at him to sit back down, but even so, he can’t hide his delight. “Sherlock Holmes! This is wonderful! My wife sent you, didn’t she? I knew she would!”

Sherlock is rather taken aback. “You’ve heard of me?”

“I’m a bit of a fan of Dr Watson’s blog.”

(Not another one!)

Sherlock shoots John a daggers look, but John just smiles blithely back at him before turning to Stratton and informing him, “Sherlock’s got a blog too, you know. There’s a link to it on mine.”

(Patronizing sod!)

“Oh, yes,” Stratton nods. “I know. My wife reads it avidly, but I’m afraid it’s a bit too scientific for me.”

“Dr Watson’s more fanciful approach is more to your taste?” Sherlock sneers. “I’m afraid he’s not exactly an objective witness. He will insist on emphasizing points of absolutely no relevance.”

“I don’t know about that -” Stratton looks uncertainly from Sherlock, to John, then back again, offering them both an ingratiating smile. (He’s a man who’s used to conflicts within a relationship.) (Interesting.) “- but it’s a great read.”

“Yes, well, that’s quite enough chit-chat about Dr Watson’s literary endeavours,” Sherlock says, moving on. “Let’s discuss the sites _I’ve_ been visiting. Are you familiar with Sporting Chancers?”

Stratton’s groan and the way he slumps in his chair reveal that he is.

“There are pages and pages of gossip about the state of your marriage, Mr Stratton,” Sherlock goes on. “Are the rumours true?”

Stratton looks away, rubbing at the growth of stubble on his chin (the question has made him uncomfortable). He takes a deep breath. “It was never very easy, what with the age gap, and then we hit a really rocky patch, a year of so ago … You know how it is.”

John looks as if he might say that yes, he does know but he keeps his mouth shut, opting to nod sympathetically instead.

Annoyed, Sherlock demands, “A rocky patch? After less than a year of marriage?”

“Sherlock,” John warns in an undertone.

“It was hard,” Stratton goes on, as if neither of them had spoken, a distant look in his eyes. “I thought she was going to leave me - but we got through it. And then suddenly, it was better than ever - like a second honeymoon, if you know what I mean. She couldn’t keep her hands off me."

Sherlock can feel his expression turning incredulous. "That didn’t strike you as suspicious?"

Stratton looks lost, uncomprehending. He shakes his head. "What are you saying?"

“Perhaps your wife wanted something,” Sherlock suggests, earning another muttered “Sherlock!” from John.

Stratton laughs. “She certainly did, Mr Holmes. Not that I was complaining.” (He doesn't want to face the truth, so he's turning it all into a joke.)

“I’d like to talk to her,” Sherlock says. (Always better to deal with the organ grinder, rather than the monkey.) “Though she’s a very difficult woman to track down.” (John spent a lot of yesterday afternoon and evening trying to raise her on the phone but to no avail.) “Do you have any idea where she might be?”

John makes an odd little nasal noise and, out of the corner of his eyes, Sherlock sees him squeeze his eyes shut for a moment.

Stratton does a double-take. “She isn’t at home?”

Sherlock is about to say ‘no’, when John gently replies, “She might be. But she’s not answering the phone.”

Stratton nods, pressing his lips together and looking down at the table top. “She’s probably at her mother’s.” He sounds hesitant, unsure. “She’ll be taking it hard, me being inside.”

Sherlock gives a snort (because, really - is the man an idiot?) (hasn’t he seen his wife’s TV interview?) but, when he feels a sharp kick to his ankle under the table, he does his best to make it sound more like a cough. “Tell me about your relationship with Jeanette Church, Mr Stratton.”

“Strictly professional, Mr Holmes,” Stratton says firmly. “I’m … I _was_ her coach.” He breaks off and runs a hand through his hair. When he looks up again, his eyes are watery and blood shot. “I can’t believe she’s dead. She was such a talent, such a good kid. She’d have gone far.”

“Hardly a ‘kid’,” Sherlock corrects. “She was seventeen. And an attractive girl, going by her photos. No-one would have blamed you …” He lets his voice trail off, giving Stratton the opportunity to confess to any impropriety, although the sudden rigidity that comes over John’s posture, and the clenching of his jaw, are hardly encouragements.

Stratton gives a bitter laugh. “You think? See this?” He taps the side of his face, just under the bruise there. “The prisoners on D Wing did that. And it’s nothing to what they did to my ribs and back. I thought they were going to kill me. They think I’m some kind of paedo.”

“Semen was found on - _in_ \- the body,” Sherlock points out. “ _Your_ semen.”

“I didn’t sleep with her!” Stratton cries, slamming a hand down on the table in frustration. “Ever! Why won’t anyone believe that?”

John grimaces. “The DNA evidence is pretty strong. The expert witness put the possibility of the sample not having come from you at one in fifteen million.”

“I didn’t do it!” Stratton cries again. “I love my wife! And she loves me.”

“Love,” Sherlock replies, “is a particularly vicious motivator. What did Mrs Stratton think of Jeanette Church?”

Stratton frowns. (He can’t see the relevance of this line of questioning.) “She doesn’t … didn’t know her. They never met.”

“Did she resent the time you spent with Church?” Sherlock presses.

“Not at all,” Stratton replies. “Coaching is my life. Karen knows that.”

“Then you’re a very lucky man,” Sherlock says smoothly, rising from his chair. “Thank you - that’s all we need. Come along, John.”

John hesitates for a moment. “Uh, yes. Thank you, Mr Stratton,” he mumbles, getting to his feet too. “You’ve been, uh, very helpful.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

"Well, at least we know he wasn't having an affair with Church," John remarks, as the taxi pulls away, leaving HMP Wandsworth to fade into the distance behind them.

Sherlock looks at him. "How do we know that?"

John smiles - one of his patient, how-can-you-not-know-this? smiles. "Because he loves his wife."

Sherlock snorts. "Love! Perhaps he loved Church too."

"Nope." John presses his lips together and shakes his head. "You can only love - _really_ love - one person at a time."

(Fascinating.) "Really?"

"Really."

Pondering this, Sherlock gazes out of the taxi window for a while, watching the lights from shop windows and other vehicles flash past. (Did Karen Stratton think her husband had fallen _in_ love with Church and _out_ of love with her? Was she trying to punish him for it?) (No, there's something else ... something important ...)

“Poor sod,” John says, after a while. “He’s got no idea she wanted to see him in prison, has he?”

Sherlock shrugs. “He’s an idiot.”

“Yeah, but he loves her,” John sighs.

“My point exactly. People in love are invariably idiots.”

“Charming.”

“Well, look at him! He’s fifty-nine years old. He ought to have learnt _something_ about people - about _women_ \- by now.”

“He _loves_ her,” John repeats.

“And much good it’s doing him,” Sherlock scoffs. “He’s in prison, for something he didn’t do - and his appeal is going to fail because he wife wants him to stay there. He’d have been better off with a dog.”

John raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you liked dogs.” He looks hopeful, as though a fondness for dogs might be somehow promising.

“He’d have been better off with a pot plant,” Sherlock replies, determinedly squashing that hope. “A _rock_.”

John narrows his eyes at him. “Do you have any human feelings at all? Ever?”

Stung, Sherlock rounds on him. “Oh, not this again,” he says. “Your willingness to repeat yourself is getting extremely boring.” He means it to hurt, and it obviously does.

John opens his mouth, swallows hard then knocks on the glass panel behind the driver’s head. “Stop the taxi,” he orders.

It isn’t the reaction Sherlock was expecting. “What?” he asks. “Why?”

“I’m getting out.”

The taxi pulls into the kerb and Sherlock experiences a strange, unpleasant fluttering in his chest. “Where are you going?”

John’s hand is on the door handle now. “None of your business.”

Bewildered by how quickly they’ve come to this, and caught between mounting anger and fear, Sherlock decides to feign bitter contempt. “Running off to Sarah again?” he sneers. “Yes, that’s right. Go and cry on her shoulder. I’m sick to death of your bleeding heart routine.”

John gives him a cool, level look - as heartless as any of the ones he’s ever accused Sherlock of. “It would serve you right if I did.”

Sherlock can feel his control of the situation slipping away. “I don’t care,” he snarls. “Don’t you get that yet, John?”

All of a sudden, John doesn’t look quite so calm. His eyes flash dangerously, and the muscles around his mouth tighten. “I don’t know why I bother,” he growls. He throws the taxi door open and jumps out.

Sherlock looks down at his hands. They’re visibly shaking. He grits his teeth. “I never asked you to.”

This time, John _does_ slam the door shut, and it closes with the most hollow, final sound Sherlock has ever heard.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

By the time the taxi drops him off back at Baker Street, Sherlock has almost managed to convince himself that John’s absence is welcome. He’ll be able to concentrate more fully on the Stratton case. He won’t have to listen to John’s inane chatter. And - best of all - he won’t have to watch what he says for fear of offending John’s delicate sensitivities.

He lets himself in from the street, and bounds up the stairs, already working on a mental list of things he needs to do. First off, he decides, opening the door to the flat, is to review his blog (though not for reasons of vanity) (gratifying though it is to know that some people, at least, prefer the rational to the sentimental approach). It’s possible that rereading his entries will give him an insight into Karen Stratton’s personality.

Resisting the urge to use John’s laptop (it’s lying right there, on Sherlock’s desk, practically _begging_ to be used) (but John hardly needs any more ammunition at the moment, and besides - unless he’s unremittingly stupid - he’ll have changed his password for something less easily guessed than '4fgh4n15t4n', so it would take time to hack into), Sherlock fetches his own from his bedroom. He can never call up his website without a little thrill of pride, a thrill that’s amplified every time the hit-counter registers a significant increase in traffic. (How many hits does John get?) (Do raw numbers count? Surely it’s the _quality_ of readers that counts, not their quantity?)

Quickly, he backtracks through the more recent items (even though the piece on post-mortem burns on upper arms is particularly interesting and exceedingly well written, unlike _some_ people’s romanticized nonsense), until he finds what he’s looking for: posts made prior to August 12th. The first of these is an admittedly abstruse piece: an essay on establishing the date of paper-based documents. He’s unsurprised, if a little disappointed, to find it still hasn’t attracted any comments, other than a sad-faced emoticon. Clicking back a little further, a header finally catches his eye: On The Unreliability of Fingerprints. He recalls it well: a strongly expressed argument (John called it ‘a rant’), prompted by one of Anderson’s self-satisfied remarks about the scientific superiority of his trade. It explains that modern-day easy access to photocopiers, transparent film (of the overhead project variety) and wood glue make it all too easy for even the dullest witted person to plant faked forensic evidence. He sits back in his seat, letting the information settle, his fingertips pressed together.

(What if Karen Stratton made the fingerprints on the glasses found at the scene of the murder?) (What if she planted them there?) (How would she have got access to the building? There were no signs of a break-in but she and Church didn’t know one another.)

(No, wait! If Karen Stratton planted evidence, she must either have known about the murder before it happened ...)

A sudden flash of insight makes Sherlock leap up from his seat, and he starts to pace the room, bubbling over with nervous energy. If John were here, he'd run the ideas racing through his brain past him, but in his (welcome) absence, he addresses the skull on the mantelpiece instead. “What if Karen Stratton was the murderer? She was an athlete. It’s possible she may still be limber enough for a spot of cat burglary. On the other hand, the Churches’ flat is on the sixth floor. What if she found another way of getting in? Disguise? She could have dressed as a cleaner. Though one of the residents might have seen her and realized she shouldn’t have been there. Though do most people notice cleaners? No. A possibility, then.”

The skull looks decidedly unimpressed.

Sherlock tries another theory. “What if Jeanette Church let her in? Would she do that? Why would she do that? It’s more likely she’d let a woman in than a man ... but according to Stratton, she didn’t know his wife.”

A sudden knock at the door interrupts Sherlock’s train of thought. He stalks impatiently over to answer it.

It’s Lestrade, looking furtive and carrying a manilla folder. “Here,” he says, handing it over. “I can let you have it twenty-four hours tops. I don’t need to tell you to guard it with your life, do I? The Chief Constable will have my guts for garters if he finds out I gave it to you.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock mutters, already opening it up and scarcely listening.

“Sherlock-”

(There’s no time for conversation.) “Thank you, Inspector. I’m sure you must be very busy. Good-bye!”

Closing the door in Lestrade’s face, Sherlock hurries to his desk and opens the file. (It’s thick and comprehensive. A whole night’s reading could lie ahead.)

“Time of death: 10.35 pm,” Sherlock tells the skull, after a while. “But John says that's probably too precise, so let's say between 10 pm and 11 pm. Whilst Mr Stratton was at home watching television, and his wife was out dancing in Hammersmith.” A new thought strikes him, and he slaps a hand to each side of his head, calling up the quickest route. (Hammersmith, Fulham, Putney Bridge, Trinity Road, Tooting, Streatham, Thurlow Park Road, Dulwich.) (That time of night? Half an hour, at most.) Sherlock grins to himself. “The game is on!”

Further inspection of the forensic reports uncovers details not disclosed in the newspapers: two glasses containing traces of whisky, both bearing Stratton’s fingerprints, were found in the living room. Two glasses containing residues of a caffeinated, carbonated soft drink, and one containing traces of amitryptiline, were discovered in the kitchen. No useful fingerprints on either. (Four glasses? Why were there four glasses when there were only two people?) (Why were there no decent fingerprints on the second set of glasses?)

Sherlock turns to the post-mortem report. The pathologist found evidence of intercourse, but no sign of sexual trauma; surprisingly little vaginal abrasion; traces of amitryptiline in a blood sample from the victim; no alcohol in victim’s blood stream. Church’s last meal was white fish and salad.

With every piece of evidence, from the Sunday newspapers to the police file, Sherlock’s instinct that Karen Stratton was involved in Church’s death has been getting stronger. However, with the pathology report, he’s hit a wall. There’s no getting around the fact that Church had sex (albeit very gentle, careful sex) with Stratton on the night of the murder.

Unless …

Sherlock grabs his computer again, and lies down on the sofa to consult a few sites specializing IVF and sperm-banking. “Yes!” he says, clapping his hands and stretching out luxuriously with satisfaction. (Sperm samples can be kept frozen for weeks, months - even years - then thawed out in a matter of seconds.)

He jumps up again. Proof - he needs proof. (What kind of proof?) (Access to Karen Stratton’s hard drive. She’ll have accessed How To sites, IVF sites … She’ll have the materials for making fake fingerprints about the house … Where did the whisky glasses come from ... Circumstantial evidence, all of it, but with the right pressure, she might be tricked into a confession.)

Sherlock knows it’s highly unlikely Karen Stratton will admit him to her house voluntarily. He _could_ , he supposes, approach Lestrade to get a search warrant, but it would take too much time, and the presence of uniformed policemen would instantly put Mrs Stratton on her guard. No, there’s only one way to tackle this: Sherlock will have to break into her house. (It should be easily enough done - she’s away at her mother’s). He tears a corner off the journal on the occasional table near the fire, and scribbles down Stratton’s address. Then he goes to his room to assemble a house-breaking kit: gloves, torch, sink plunger, credit card (for opening Yale locks), gemmy (for opening windows), climbing rope (just in case), assorted other potentially useful items. He stuffs the lot into a rucksack, and is just considering a change of clothes (into something a lot darker and more anonymous) when it occurs to him that a woman capable of murdering an innocent girl in order to frame her husband is not someone to take any chances with. He sprints upstairs to John’s room, and takes John’s pistol from his desk drawer.

Running back down the stairs, he meets John mounting them. (Why is he carrying his shoes instead of wearing them?) (So much for his love of dogs!)

John freezes, eyes wide, mouth working uselessly. “You’re … up,” he manages, at last. (Why is he so surprised?)

“ _Some_ of us have been working,” Sherlock sniffs, with a toss of his head. “How was the pub?”

John blinks. “You mean you’ve been up _all night_?”

Sherlock consults his watch. Seven twenty-five. And, now he comes to think about it, the scrap of sky visible from the hallway window is decidedly grey, not black. “Apparently.”

John clears his throat. “Sherlock,” he begins, quietly, looking down at his feet, “there’s something … hey!” All of a sudden his voice is much firmer, louder. “Is that my gun?”

“I need it,” Sherlock replies, adding, as an afterthought, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“What … do you need it for?” John asks slowly, shrinking back. (Almost as if he already has a theory.) (Almost as if he’s nervous.)

“The living room wall is perfectly safe, don’t worry,” Sherlock tells him, airily. “The gun’s for house-breaking.”

“ _What_?”

“I need to break into Stratton’s house,” Sherlock explains (wearily) (because surely it ought to be obvious?). “The gun is just a precaution.”

“Really?” John sounds unconvinced. “You’re going house-breaking at half-past seven on a Tuesday morning?”

He has a point. Breaking-and-entering is a job for the hours of darkness. “Tonight,” he decides, amending his plans. “We’ll go tonight.”

“I am _not_ going burgling with you.”

“Burglary involves intent to commit theft or violence, John. I will merely be letting myself in and taking a look around.”

“No. I still don’t like it.”

“You won’t have to do anything criminal,” Sherlock wheedles (sometimes John needs a little persuasion), “just keep watch.”

“I could be wrong, but I think they call that ‘aiding and abetting’,” John replies.

Sherlock grabs him by the shoulders and steps in closer (making John flinch) (should probably have put the gun down first). “Think of Stratton,” he urges, gripping John tighter. “He’s an innocent man! If the police won’t help him, we’ll have to.”

John is frowning. He opens his mouth, then promptly shuts it again. And then he shrugs and Sherlock can feel the tension beginning to seep from his body.

“You’re right” John nods, with a small smile. “All right. I’ll come.”

Sherlock beams at him. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down!”

“I- No. Of course I wouldn’t. Of course not.”

“We’ll leave at ten,” Sherlock decides. He scratches his head. “I suppose I should get some sleep before then.”

“Yes,” John murmurs, though Sherlock is only half-listening. “I could do with a bit myself.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

**  
_February 1st, 10 pm_  
**

 

Standing outside the Stratton residence (a red-brick semi in Guildford, new double-glazing, mono-blocked driveway), Sherlock’s heart is pounding, the blood singing in his veins. This is it. What he lives for. This moment of stillness and complete focus, as the untidiness of life drops away and everything becomes black and white, _clear_.

John, meanwhile, is lingering on the pavement, looking less than enthusiastic - even after insisting on having the gun.

“John!” Sherlock hisses at him, jerking his head impatiently towards the house. “Come on!”

Darting a glance left and right, John finally picks up his feet and scurries along in Sherlock’s wake, melting into the shadows cast by a particularly fragrant hedge (cistus) when a security lamp floods their approach with light. “I don’t like it,” he mutters. “Be careful.”

Sherlock tries the side door, but there’s no gap between the door and the frame. (Double-glazing has rendered so many traditional skills obsolete.) Hoping to have better luck with the back door, Sherlock opens the wrought iron gate to the garden and ushers John through.

“I thought I was here to keep watch,” John objects.

“And so you are,” Sherlock insists. He waves a vague hand towards the dark row of houses at the bottom of the Stratton’s considerable garden. “Keep an eye out for nosey neighbours.”

Working quickly, Sherlock tries the kitchen door but it too is double-glazed. His only option now is a window. Clambering up to balance on a perfectly situated piece of piping (kitchen waste), he takes his knife and slides the blade under the sealant fixing the glass pane to the frame.

“John. Hand me the sink plunger.”

“The _what_?”

“In my bag. Sink plunger. Now.”

There’s a slight pause (John wants to make a point, to convey his disapproval), then the sound of scrabbling around in the rucksack. A couple of moments later, the handle of the plunger is in Sherlock’s outstretched hand. The rubber cup latches onto the glass with perfect suction.

Another wiggle of the knife blade, and Sherlock is removing the glass from the window, and opening up a hole wide enough to climb through. He passes both plunger and pane to John, before hauling himself in through the empty frame.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” John demands.

“Hang onto it for a while - I won’t be long,” Sherlock replies, shuffling on his knees across a slightly wet, stainless steel draining board. The last thing he hears, before dropping down onto the stone-tiled floor, is John grumbling something like “Yes, thank you. Very helpful.”

Sherlock holds his breath, waiting for the Strattons’ alarm to go off. There’s no avoiding the first few nerve-jangling shrieks, he knows, but once he’s located the control box, he’ll be able to silence it instantly thanks to the cunning little keypad he just happened to ‘borrow’ from Mycroft a while back. (Mycroft has his uses. Chief amongst them being the provision of indirect access to all sorts of interesting gizmos.)

But the alarm doesn’t go off. The movement sensor on the ceiling winks on and off in total indifference as Sherlock makes his way towards the door.

The house is in total darkness and, apart from the odd gurgle from a radiator and the whirring of the central heating timer, it’s completely silent. Sherlock creeps along the hallway, grateful for the thickness of the carpet, and for the open curtains which allow light to slant in from the street-lamps outside.

When he opens the first of two doors, the dim light picks out three rounded outlines (a settee, two armchairs) and bounces off a horizontal surface (glass-topped coffee table) and a vertical one (flat-screen. TV. Too large to be a computer). He shuts the door again, and opens one opposite. A powerful whiff of air freshener and Toilet Duck hits him instantly. He closes the door and moves on.

Beyond the bathroom, the hallway opens out to accommodate a flight of stairs. Sherlock mounts them. On the landing there are four more doors. He tries the first - and a little rush of excitement shoots up his spine at the sight of two desks, facing each other, each with a computer. He snaps on the light (a constant light is much less likely the attract the attention of passers-by than the flicker of a torch), and sits down at the tidier of the desks, switching the computer on as he does so.

Unfortunately Karen Stratton’s password proves much harder to predict than John’s and Sherlock spends a frustrating five minutes typing in his best guesses only to be repeatedly confronted with an Authentication Failure error message. And then, just when he’s beginning to think it’s hopeless and that he should investigate whether Karen Stratton has the materials needed for making fake fingerprints instead, an idea comes from out of the blue.

_Barcelona:1992_

Instantly, Karen Stratton's desktop flashes up onto the screen, making the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stand up. It’s not that he finds the stripped-to-the-waist pin-up of Daniel Craig particularly appealing; it’s the sudden realization he was wrong. Karen Stratton isn’t a jealous wife. Her husband wasn’t unfaithful. And Jeanette Church’s murder wasn’t a _crime passionel_. It was revenge - revenge for a much older hurt: the loss of Karen Stratton’s place on the Olympic squad.

Words, images, thoughts and theories start flying into Sherlock’s brain - so sharp and fast and vivid, it’s almost painful -and he has to stand up and pace about to avoid being crushed by them: hope, disappointment, mocking laughter; a teenage girl, her uneven brown eyes brimming with tears; an empty shop; a pile of threatening letters from creditors; official forms; a new name; a wedding; depression, doctors, medication; web searches; a plan; loveless intercourse; a used condom; an unlabelled container in the freezer; photocopying, gluing and pasting; a borrowed phone, a fatal text; used glasses, surreptitiously removed from the dishwasher before it was turned on; a man watching television on his own; and seventeen-year old blonde collapsing, being suffocated, stripped, and filled with frozen semen; a dash across town. Then, dancing. Dancing ‘til dawn.

(Impressive.) (A rare example of a truly inventive and focused criminal mind.)

It's a risk, but he has to know, so Sherlock launches the computer's web browser and types in his search terms: "Richard Stratton" and "British Athletics." In 0.06 seconds Wikipedia confirms his suspicions. Richard Stratton served ten years on the selection committee, two as president. 1990 and 1991.

Certain now of Karen Stratton’s guilt, Sherlock takes out his phone, but as he starts punching in Lestrade’s number, he senses movement at his back. He spins around, already lunging forward to block any attack that may be coming (there are clearly no lengths to which Karen Stratton will not go, after all) and he seizes an arm tightly, then another.

But they’re not Mrs Stratton’s arms; they’re John’s.

John doesn’t even try to break free. “We have to get out of here,” he says urgently. “Didn’t you hear the car pull up? Someone’s coming.”

Sherlock runs to the window, just in time to see Karen Stratton advancing up the path. A second later comes the sound of a key in a lock, and then of a door being opened. (Too late!) (There’s only one easy way out. Back down the stairs.) (Too risky.) (Out through a bedroom window? John might not manage it with his shoulder.)

Sherlock scans the room, assessing possible hiding places: curtains (not long enough, the windows don’t go all the way to the floor); table (possible, but risky); cupboard (narrow, not tall enough … though John might fit in, if he stooped.) Sherlock tries the door. It’s not locked. “Get in.”

With a little grumble, John tucks himself awkwardly inside, one leg bent, his head at a forty-five degree angle to his shoulders so that he fits under the shelf at the top. “What about you?” he asks.

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock insists, quickly shutting the door. Karen Stratton is moving about downstairs now, her high heels clicking over a hard surface (she’s gone into the kitchen), then falling silent again (she’s come back out). A moment later one of the stairs creaks, then another. Sherlock dashes back across the room, and nips in behind the open door, flattening himself against the wall. He feels, rather than sees, Karen Stratton enter the room (the floorboards give a little under her weight). Half a minute passes and then the light goes out. (She must have assumed she left it on accidentally during her absence.) The door starts to move, depriving Sherlock of his cover, and his pulse beats harder, until he realizes she’s simply closing it. Smiling to himself at his own jumpiness, he breathes out - only to be startled by the light snapping on again, and the door being kicked shut from inside the room.

The next thing he knows, something heavy is slamming into the side of his head. His knees buckle and the carpeted floor rises up to meet him as everything goes black.

* * * * * * * *

At first, Sherlock has no idea where he is. Nothing about the room is familiar. Judging by the little forest of table and chair legs in his line of vision, he’d guess it’s an office, although the quality and colour of the carpet (thick wool, pale pink) - a carpet he’s _lying on_ for some reason - suggest a more domestic setting. His head hurts.

“Put it down,” he hears John growl. “Put it down and move away from him or I _will_ shoot you.”

“This is _my_ house. You’re an intruder in it. If you shoot me for defending my home, you’ll go to prison,” a woman sneers in a voice Sherlock recognizes as Karen Stratton’s. “For a very, very long time.”

“D’you know what?” John replies, almost conversationally. “I don’t care. Get away from him and get away _now_.”

Squinting against the painfully bright bedroom light, Sherlock looks up. Karen Stratton is standing over him, holding something round and black, and a yard away, there’s John. John, pointing his gun and wearing the blackest expression Sherlock has ever seen on him - one of cold, merciless fury that’s all the more powerful for being held perfectly in check. Karen Stratton must see the danger in it too, because she lowers the thing in her hand to the floor and sets it down carefully. The effect John's expression having on Sherlock is altogether different (heat, a strange agitation). He tries to move, but fails.

“Move back,” John says again. “And put your hands on your head.”

Karen Stratton obeys (she’s not stupid), and John pulls his phone out of his jacket and thumbs in a number. “It’s me,” he says into it. “Yes, John Watson. At the Strattons. Sherlock’s hurt. Send an ambulance.” He pauses, and squeezes his eyes shut for a second. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to check. Please - hurry.”

The change in his tone couldn’t be more striking. The firm edge and clear diction, the mellow tenor pitch, have given way to notes half an octave higher, thin and strained. John is suffering - and Sherlock wants nothing more than to comfort him. He opens his mouth, tries to reassure him, but nothing comes out. He groans.

“Sherlock!”

Instantly, there’s an arm about his waist, helping him to sit up (John smells of soap - a new sort, something flowery) but the helping is awkward - uncomfortable, even - and takes longer than it should. (What happened? How bad is it?) It’s only when Sherlock’s sitting up that he realizes John was only using one hand to haul him up: the other is still training the pistol on Karen Stratton.

(What did she do? How did she do it?) Sherlock groans again, as his head starts to throb with the effort of thinking.

“An ambulance is on the way,” John says. His voice is calm again. (Worryingly so.)

“I don’t need-” Sherlock shakes his head. ( _That_ was a mistake.) He curls in on himself, wincing.

“Yes. You do.”

“Don’t fuss. I’m fine.” (Apart from the blinding headache and nausea, that is.) Sherlock attempts to get to his feet, but his legs won’t cooperate and he sinks back onto the carpet again.

"You are _not_ fine,” John insists. “You were unconscious. But at least you’re … alive -” His voice catches but he quickly steadies it. “We just need to know how bad it is.”

“How bad what is?” Sherlock asks. (The angle of the floor seems to be shifting. Tilting.)

“Your concussion. She hit you with a frying pan.”

“A frying pan?”

“Le Creuset.”

“Expensive.”

John laughs. (He has a beautiful laugh, even when it’s sad, like now.) “Yes, thank goodness it wasn’t some cheap thing from Matalan but _heavy enough to have killed you_.” John stops, swallowing hard. “Luckily for her, she didn’t. Because if she had, I swear, Sherlock, she wouldn’t be-”

The wail of a police siren cuts him off.

* * * * * * * *

 

**  
_February 2nd, 2.45 am_  
**

 

Almost three hours after first arriving at the Royal Surrey - one of which was spent in Reception and Triage, followed by two waiting for an over-worked houseman, and then for X-rays - Sherlock is allowed to leave. Clutching a white, plastic bottle of painkillers and congratulating himself on having only thrown up twice, he walks unsteadily back through the eerily quiet treatment rooms corridor to emerge once again into the chaos of A&E Reception. His vision blurs for a moment, then clears. There are even more people here now, too many for the blue and red chairs, and some stand leaning against walls, whilst others have settled for sitting on the floor. (Is John still here?) As Sherlock scans the room for him - no easy task when his eyes don’t want to work properly and when he’s feeling bone-tired and sick - a drunk, dressed in a shabby suit and unpolished shoes, wanders past, muttering to himself and hunting compulsively through his pockets. Sherlock takes a step sideways to let him pass, but the drunk suddenly changes direction and bumps into him.

“Fucking arse!” the man spits, giving Sherlock a hefty shove. “Do that again and I’ll fucking kill you, got it?” And he shoves Sherlock again, harder.

Ordinarily, Sherlock would have held his ground. He didn’t undergo seven years of martial arts training and two years in the boxing club at school without developing excellent balance. However, it turns out that a blow to the head with a quality French cooking utensil will do said sense of balance some serious damage, and he staggers, bouncing off a wall a couple of times before managing to right himself. That’s when he spots John, sitting on a crate of some kind, in a far corner of the room, shoulders bowed, head in his hands. Offering the drunk who’s still cursing him a placatory smile (no teeth, lots of blinking, chin tucked winningly in), Sherlock starts to make his way over but when he’s half-way there, John looks up. His face is shockingly haggard - he looks even more exhausted than Sherlock feels - but as soon as he sees Sherlock, his eyes light up and he jumps to his feet. In no time at all, he’s in front of him, grasping him by the arms.

“What did they say? Are you all right?”

Sherlock frowns. It’s an effort remembering. “Mild. They said was mild. I’ve got these.” He rattles his tablets. “Is there a taxi rank outside?”

“They don’t want to keep you in for observation?”

“I told them I live with a doctor. A doctor used to treating head trauma.”

John tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. “Really, you’d be better off here. If anything-”

“I want to go home, John.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

**  
_February 2nd, 4.15 am_  
**

 

Sherlock is in bed, propped up on three pillows, and - at John’s insistence - sipping water. John, meanwhile, is in the sitting room, talking to Lestrade.

“Is he all right?” Sherlock hears Lestrade ask. “Not sent him funny, has it - that blow to the head?”

“No funnier than usual,” John replies, and Sherlock knows it’s supposed to be joke, but John’s voice is tight, strained.

“Can I have a word? About the Stratton case? It won’t take long.”

Now that he’s doped up with analgesics and not having to do anything challenging like walk or stand, Sherlock is feeling much better, and the prospect of being able to dazzle Lestrade with the sheer brilliance of his deductions is very appealing, but John’s response to Lestrade question is a firm “He needs to rest." So firm, in fact, that Sherlock is sure he's just crossed his arms and is now blocking Lestrade’s path.

But lying in bed is boring, and Sherlock craves a distraction. “I can’t rest with you two out there talking about me,” he calls out. “Come in, Lestrade.”

Nothing happens for a moment or two (John is probably subjecting Lestrade to a Severely Disapproving Look), but Lestrade has a few tricks of his own (including his Little Lost Policeman act - lowered chin, raised eyebrows, big eyes, and a tendency to incline his head deferentially) and eventually John relents.

“Five minutes,” he says. “ _Five_.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Lestrade appears in Sherlock’s bedroom doorway, John at his back. He nods. “Sherlock.”

“Lestrade. What no flowers? No grapes?”

“When you’re on your feet again,” Lestrade bargains, “I’ll buy you a beer. So, what’ve you got?”

“ _Five_ minutes,” John repeats.

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, it won’t take that long. Provided the inspector makes an effort to keep up.” He flashes Lestrade a smile. “Ready?”

“Go on - let's hear it.”

“Richard Stratton is an innocent man. _Karen_ Stratton is your killer. She used her husband’s phone to text Jeanette Church to arrange a meeting. Thinking it was Richard Stratton buzzing for entry, Church let her into the building. Karen Stratton must have spun a convincing story about having come on her husband’s behalf because Church let her in and they had a drink together. Coke - because, obviously, Karen Stratton needed to keep a clear head.”

“Hang on,” Lestrade interrupts. “What about the whisky glasses? The ones with Richard Stratton’s DNA on them.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Karen Stratton took them with her. Along with a large number of faked fingerprints to plant around the Church’s flat as further evidence her husband had been there. Shall I go on?”

Lestrade nods.

“Karen Stratton doped Church’s Coke with the amitryptiline she’d duped her doctor into prescribing for her by claiming to be depressed. As soon as Church succumbed to the drug, Karen Stratton suffocated her. Mostly likely with a cushion.”

Lestrade raises an eyebrow. “And then had sex with her?”

“In a manner of speaking. John, you’ll recall how surprised Richard Stratton said he was when his wife suddenly became amorous? If he’d known why, it might have cooled his ardour. Karen Stratton was collecting semen from his used condoms and freezing it. She stripped the body and using some kind of slender syringe - my guess would be a turkey baster - I do believe it’s traditional and she’d been visiting a lot on artificial insemination websites - check her hard drive - she inserted it into Church. Given that kind of evidence, a mind as prosaic as Anderson’s would naturally leap to the conclusion that Church had had intercourse with Richard Stratton. Meanwhile Karen Stratton - and here’s where she was really clever - played the devoted wife and offered her husband an alibi - an alibi she was already determined would fail, thus compounding his apparent guilt.” Sherlock consults his watch. “One minute, thirty-six seconds. Time for a second run-through, if you need it.”

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade murmurs, shaking his head. “But what I don’t get is, why? Why would Karen Stratton want to kill Church? She didn’t even know the girl.”

“The 1992 Olympics. Karen Stratton would have competed but she was dropped from the team. Richard Stratton was the chair of the selection committee. It was revenge.”

“Oh, for god’s sake! You mean to say she spent twenty years waiting to get even?”

“Effectively. If the sports clothing business she started had succeeded, it’s conceivable she might have forgotten about it, but most elite athletes are single-minded to the point of ruthlessness.”

“But surely Stratton would have remember her?”

“Why should he?” Sherlock sneers. “He was a professional coach. Hundreds of hopefuls would have passed through his hands. He’d only remember the winners.”

Lestrade and John exchange a look, before Lestrade mutters, ““Bloody hell. Are you sure about all this?”

“How long have you known me? How many times have I been wrong?”

“But you make it sound so cold and calculating.”

“It’s his speciality,” John says, smiling sweetly as he steers Lestrade towards the bedroom door. “And that’s your five minutes up. Goodnight, Inspector.”

Lestrade allows himself to be ushered out. As he and John move towards the front door, their conversation gets less audible, although Sherlock is able to deduce the essence of it from their tone of voice: brisk and nasal in Lestrade’s case (he’ll be working through the night), low and quiet in John’s (he's back to being a doctor again).

The front door opens and shuts, a light is switched off and John’s footsteps sound on the stairs.

Sherlock is surprised ( _not_ put out) by John’s failure to look in on him again. (It’s very out of character.) He puts his glass of water down on the floor and switches off his bedside lamp, wriggling further down under the covers. (Why didn’t John say goodnight?) (Perhaps he's tired.) (Yes … tired.) (Warm.) (These drugs are gooooood …)

John’s footsteps sound on the stairs again and Sherlock pries his eyes open to see John walking into his room, carrying a bundled up duvet.

“John?”

“Go to sleep,” John replies. He drops the duvet and disappears for a minute, only to return, dragging in an armchair from the living room. When he’s happy with its position - a few feet from Sherlock’s bed - he settles into it, and covers himself up with the duvet.

“You’re sleeping in here?” Sherlock asks.

“In case you need me,” John says, matter-of-factly. “Now shut up and go to sleep."

 

* * * * * * * *

 

When Sherlock awakes, his watch says it’s 10.25 am. His head is sore, but the pain is mostly external, located an inch and a half above his left ear. He raises a hand and touches the area tentatively - it’s bruised and swollen - but at least he’s not feeling nauseous any more. Rubbing his eyes, he thinks about getting up, before remembering that last night John insisted on sleeping in his room.

( _John_.)

He rolls onto his side to see whether John is still there, and he is - fast asleep, and snoring lightly, his head lolling to one side, and his duvet slowly working its way down towards the floor. It’s a charming sight: the devoted doctor, who started his vigil determined to watch over his patient but who, in the end, couldn’t help surrendering to much-needed sleep.

(Oh, _John_.)

Almost as if he senses he’s being scrutinized, John shifts in the chair, grunts and snuffles, then twists around so that his cheek is resting against the back of the chair. As he stills again, breathing deeply, Sherlock smiles to himself. Like this, with his hair tousled, his mouth slack and his body in a loosely foetal position, John really is adorable, and it’s all Sherlock can do not to get up and tuck the duvet around him more securely.

But all of a sudden, John yawns and stretches, and the duvet slips all the way to the floor. Sherlock slams his eyes shut. He’s not sure he wants John to discover him gazing at him with what surely must be unguarded fondness.

The chair creaks and groans (John is having another stretch), then feet can be heard shuffling (John’s not awake enough to stride) across the four feet of floor separating the chair from Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock holds his breath.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is rough, raw. (He hasn’t slept much during the night.)

Sherlock grunts, still feigning sleep.

“I’m just going to take your pulse,” John says gently, and Sherlock prepares himself for the sensation of his own duvet being pulled back, and of John grasping his wrist to take the pulse there, but instead two fingers alight on the side of his throat. Sherlock’s eyes fly open.

John is leaning over him. He’s blinking, barely awake, and yet his first thought was to do this. Something inside Sherlock’s chest swells and grows warm, and he has to inhale deeply to accommodate it. John’s touch is all tender concern; there’s absolutely no ulterior motive to it, and yet it’s making Sherlock tingle with want. He reaches up to cup the side of John’s face. “John …”

John jumps at the contact, then smiles, his eyes darting about Sherlock’s face (checking - still checking - that there’s nothing amiss). “Good morning,” he says, at last. “You okay?”

At first, Sherlock doesn’t answer; he just lets his hand slip from John’s cheek to his jaw, tracing the line of the bone there with his thumb and relishing the scrape of John’s early morning stubble against the pad as he slides his hand further back to curl around the nape of John’s neck. Sherlock’s heart is beating insanely fast, his entire body thrilling with the knowledge that in a few short moments, he’s going to be pulling John closer. “You tell me,” he says, in a voice that’s absurdly husky even to his own ears, as he allows his gaze to drift from John’s eyes to his mouth.

John clears his throat. “You, uh … Your pulse is up a bit,” he replies.

“Very good, John,” Sherlock murmurs, looking up again. “And what does that tell you?”

John shrugs helplessly, as if his instincts are at odds with what his brain is trying to tell him, leaving him incapable of even the most obvious diagnosis.

Taking pity on him (John hates being made to guess, being asked to make deductions which he thinks beyond him), and because he’s growing impatient himself, Sherlock decides to give him a clue - by applying a little more pressure to the back of his neck, forcing him lean in nearer still. It throws John nicely off balance - so much so that he has to plant a hand on the bed beside Sherlock’s shoulder to prevent himself from falling on top of him.

“It tells you I’m nervous, John,” Sherlock explains, wrapping his other arm around John’s waist and tugging until he collapses onto the bed. “Nervous because I’m about to kiss you. And because I can’t deduce what will happen after that."

"I thought-" John begins, but he doesn't get any further because Sherlock rolls him onto his back and presses against him, his lips on John's and his tongue in John's mouth, rendering speech impossible. At first, John resists, and Sherlock can almost hear the protests whizzing around in his head ("You said you didn't want me." "You've been injured." "You don't know what you're doing." "I'm not going to take advantage of you when you're concussed.") but he just keeps on kissing him, until every last one of them is silent and John's arms tighten around him.

Just about everything Sherlock has ever believed is crumbling. Emotions aren’t useless to the detective; they’re invaluable. Without them, he would never have understood this. Would never have understood John. He might even have lost him. The notion makes his heart clench, despite its being completely ridiculous. (John isn’t Father. He’s loyal, faithful. He wouldn’t _abandon_ him ...)

He isn’t the man on the beach either; he’s not a pervert driven solely by lust. He’s been in here all night, and never for a moment thought of taking liberties. He wouldn’t even be on the bed now, if he hadn’t been yanked him onto it.

And he surrenders so beautifully, so completely ...

An almost painful fondness wells up in Sherlock, intensifying the desire throbbing through him, and he breaks the kiss so that he can look at John’s face, and reacquaint himself with every last detail of it: the little frown lines between his eyebrows (earned through years of study, close examination of his patients, and worry for them); the deep creases that run from each side of his nose down beyond the corners of his mouth (the result of a lifetime of unselfconsciously open smiles); the bags beneath his eyes (too many sleepless nights, too many nightmares); his round, brown eyes (always interested, always curious); the perfect, neat line of his mouth …

But John is pressing his lips together and that perfect, neat line is thinning. He’s having trouble meeting Sherlock’s eyes too. Alarm shoots through Sherlock. (Guilt! This looks like _guilt_.)

“What is it?” he demands. “What?”

John screws his eyes shut, and turns his face away.

Sherlock thinks his heart will stop. “What?”

“Sherlock … There’s … ”

“ _What_?”

John’s mouth twists. “Sherlock - look, there’s something I have to tell you.”


	6. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock sinks into despair and returns to old (bad) habits, Mycroft comes to his rescue.

**_February 2nd, 10.35 am_ **

 

_”There's something I have to tell you.”_

 

At John’s words, Sherlock's heart – which just moments ago was galloping wildly, giddy at its own recklessness - comes to a shuddering halt and he feels himself pitching forward, as if he were being thrown from a horse. It’s a sensation he's not unfamiliar with. (It was a winter's morning; grass and hedgerows thick with hoar; Mycroft's bay hunter; the rough, frozen ground coming up hard.) Father said he'd been stupid, that - at 16.3 hands - Winston was too big for an eleven-year old to handle, but his scolding tone was tinged with pride. It was the last time Father was ever proud of him. Even so, there were no hugs, no kisses, and a year later, Father was gone.

Sherlock lets go of John and pulls back. “What do you have to tell me?”

John pushes himself up onto his elbows. (All movement is meaningful, diagnostic. By raising himself up, John has revealed he feels vulnerable, threatened in some way. ) His lips part, then close again, and his eyes dart about Sherlock’s face. (This is doubt. Uncertainty.) God knows what he sees there, but he bites his bottom lip (he’s decided against sharing whatever’s bothering him) and shakes his head. “Look, you know what? Now’s not really a good time. It'll keep. Besides, I don't want you getting wound up when you're still recovering.” He smiles – that wide-eyed, eyebrows-raised, please-agree-with-me smile.

Sherlock pulls back further, his blood running cold. “Wound up?” he echoes. “I don’t get ‘wound up’.”

“Yeah, you do.” John gets up from the bed, (He wants distance. To be standing. To be higher up and to dominate the situation - physically, at least.) (It's not a good sign.)

“What is it?” Sherlock demands, getting up too and towering over John.

John raises his palms. “Nothing. It was _nothing_. Forget about it.” He steps in and takes Sherlock's face between his hands (distance failed, so now he's trying closeness, intimacy) and he stretches up to kiss him.

“Was?” Sherlock asks, as John's lips caress his own. They feel soft and warm, but Sherlock has no intention of kissing him back. Not when John is lying to him. “You said 'was'.”

John freezes, his mouth still on Sherlock's.

Sherlock pushes him away, “ 'Was' implies a single, concrete event,” he explains, staring intently at John's face, mapping the tiny muscle movements around his eyes and mouth, and timing how long he can bear to maintain eye contact before having to look away, “whereas 'it's nothing' would imply something more general. What did you do, John?”

John sinks back to his normal height, and stares at the floor. “I-” he begins, but he can't finish.

“You did something,” Sherlock supplies, mind racing as he backtracks through the past few days. “Something you feel guilty about. It wasn’t your fault I got injured - in fact it was entirely thanks to you that it wasn’t worse - so it’s not that. You don’t feel guilty about breaking into the Stratton’s either - despite your scruples beforehand - because it got us results. No, it’s something else. Something you did before that.”

John’s mouth twists and he makes a pained noise, high up in his nose. “Look, Sherlock-”

“Yesterday morning!” Sherlock exclaims, wondering why he didn’t pay it more attention at the time. (That’s the trouble with brilliant focus; it’s only later that the mind bothers to process other, unrelated information.) “You were carrying your shoes, not wearing them. Why would you do that? Because you didn’t want to make any noise, and you didn’t want to make a noise because you didn’t want to wake me. You could have just been being considerate - you’re a considerate kind of person - but no: when you found me awake, you didn’t relax; you became _more_ tense. You didn’t want me to know you’d been out all night.”

John’s eyes flick towards the bedroom door. (He’s thinking about escape.) (Whatever this is about, it’s something serious.)

“Why should your being out all night bother me?” Sherlock persists, positioning himself between John and the door. “I can be gone for days on end when I’m working. But you weren’t working, were you, John? You were doing something else.”

“Sherlock-”

“And then there was your reaction to my having your gun. You looked positively fearful when you spotted it in my hand. Almost as if you thought I was going to use it … on you.” Sherlock’s stomach contracts at the realisation, then again when he remembers the scent of lavender and rose on John’s hair because now he _knows_. Why John was afraid.

“Sherlock, please, listen-”

Sherlock cuts him off. “Why would you think I’d want to shoot you?” he demands, harshly enough to make John squirm, before answering his own question. “Because you’d done something you couldn’t forgive yourself for,” he sneers, “so you could hardly expect me to. So, let’s see - what could it have been? Did you sell state secrets? No, you’re still far too much a soldier for that, and besides, you’re ex-military: you no longer have access to sensitive information. Did you agree to spy on me for my brother? No. If you wouldn’t do it when you hardly knew me, you wouldn’t do it now. You haven’t broken any of my equipment, and you haven’t emptied my bank account, so what was it?”

By this time, Sherlock has taken to pacing around John, looking down at him, treating him like a client, a witness – or even a criminal – rather than a friend. The old feeling of control is back, comforting and familiar. He can look at John's hair and categorise it as ‘light brown/flecked with grey’ without wanting to touch it. He can let his eyes travel down the curve of John's spine without wanting to run his hand down it too. He can look at that mouth and not want to kiss it. Almost. There's just one thing he needs to do to make the separation complete, to be free of John forever.

“You had sex with Sarah.”

John hangs his head.

And there it is: freedom. Except it’s not like flying, it’s like falling, all over again. Like hitting the ground hard - snapping bones and breaking skin. It’s like dying.

How many seconds pass before John speaks, Sherlock doesn’t know. He scarcely even knows where he is. He feels dizzy, sick. He wants to sit down. He stays standing.

At last John looks up. “Yes,” he says, miserably. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to happen. I didn’t even really want it to. It just did.”

Hearing John admit it out loud makes Sherlock want to seize him by the throat, slam him into the wall and drive something sharp and made of metal through his chest. He wants to hurt him, wants to make him howl and bleed, because he ought to know how this feels. He ought to be suffering this agony too.

Instead, he grabs his dressing gown from the back of the door and puts it on, only deigning to speak once he’s tied the belt securely. “Good,” he nods, and turns away. “Good.”

John catches him by the arm and whirls him around. “Good?” he cries. “ _Good_? What d’you mean - good?”

Sherlock prises his fingers from his forearm. “It means I’m very happy for you. You’re getting what you want at last. Tea?”

The muscles in John’s throat tighten and for a moment, he squeezes his eyes shut. “Look, Sherlock, I don’t blame you for being angry with me, but it was a mistake, and I’m really sorry and if there’s anything - _anything_ \- I can-”

Sherlock forces his features into a puzzled frown. “Why would I be angry?” he interrupts. He can think of five reasons at least, but he’ll be damned if he’ll tell John that. “Now, do you want tea or not?”

The question appears to be the last straw as far as John is concerned. He snatches a fistful of Sherlock’s dressing gown front and jerks him close, glaring up at him. “No, I don’t want any bloody tea, you dick! For god’s sake - I just told you I slept with Sarah!”

“Indeed,” Sherlock agrees, coldly. “I just don’t understand what you expect me to do with that information.”

“Say something! Get angry! Throw a punch! I had sex with Sarah. Sex.” John’s pupils are huge, and his breathing rapid. (This is arousal, fear.) “What the hell is the matter with you? Do you care about me _at all_? Or has this whole thing between us just been another of your sodding experiments?”

His entire body is vibrating with rage and hurt, and Sherlock wants nothing more than to fold his arms about him to make it stop. But then he remembers how weak and stupid he’s been already; how he trusted John because he _needed_ to, and because he thought he knew him, but he doesn’t. The man in front of him might as well be a stranger. Might as well be Father.

“Not at all,” Sherlock answers, pausing just long enough to John’s hopes to rise so that he can dash them again. “You’re invaluable when I want to make a point to Lestrade, or if there’s leg work to be an done, and you’re brilliant at shopping and keeping the flat clean. It’s true that your mind is a little dull and ordinary, but you listen well and I find that extraordinarily helpful at times.”

John’s hand falls away from the front of his dressing gown and John sags, physically and emotionally. “I suppose want me to move out,” he says, his voice flat.

For the second time in as many minutes, Sherlock feigns incomprehension. “Why on earth would I want you to do that? You pay half the rent.” Before John can answer, he pushes past him and heads for the living room. (Forget tea. What this situation calls for is nicotine - and lots of it.) (And there’s at least half a packet of Benson&Hedges hidden in the recess behind the television.)  


* * * * * * * *

  
**_11.05 am_ **

 

Baker Street, as Sherlock strides down it, resolutely ignoring the dull pain in the side of his head and the worse one in his chest, is crawling with people. (People who don’t seem to have a clue where they’re going but blessed with an uncanny propensity for getting in the way.) It’s too much of an effort to try weaving through them, so Sherlock quickens his pace and scowls at them, relying on that deep human instinct to get out of the way when faced with something angry, fast approaching. Suitably intimidated, the crowds part to let him pass. (Why are there so many people today? Why aren’t they at work? Or at home? Why aren’t they anywhere but _here_?)

It’s the weather, Sherlock realises when the huge tour bus blocking the junction at Park Road moves on, and he finds himself temporarily blinded by a sudden and unexpected blast of bright sunshine. He blinks, wincing a bit as pain spikes behind his eyeballs, and ducks into the darkness of The Volunteer’s saloon bar.

A handful of people look up, then away again, but a young woman sitting alone smiles at him. He ignores her. (Where are the cigarette machines? There must be cigarette machines. Smoking indoors might be banned now, but people still smoke - out on the street, leaning up against pub doors in all weathers, desperate for their fix.) Sherlock is desperate too. (Bloody Mrs Hudson. Bloody John Watson. They made a damn good job of removing every last trace of tobacco from 221B.) (And Mr Chatterjee is so in Mrs Hudson’s thrall that he claimed Speedy’s had run out, bare-face liar that he is.) (Ah! There - in the far corner!)

Sherlock makes a beeline for the machine, pound coins ready in his hand. He feeds them in, one after the other, irritated by how slowly the machine accepts them until, at long last, the red digital counter acknowledges he’s paid the required amount. He tugs impatiently at the handle of the dispensing tray but it refuses to budge. He tries again, more roughly, but still nothing happens.

“Want a hand?” a silky female voice right behind him asks.

He looks back over his shoulder. It’s the woman who smiled at him earlier. (Mid-twenties, office worker going by the state of her nails; junior position - cheap suit, bad haircut; and seven pounds heavier than she’d like to be - her skirt is too tight and she’s undone one too many buttons on her shirt to draw the eye upwards and away from her hips.)

She’s looking up at him, still smiling. “Here, let me,” she offers, squeezing past him so closely (too closely) that, for a second, her leg brushes his. He steps back - and just in time - because now she’s bending forward to hit the bottom of the machine with the outside of a clenched fist. The machine gives a dull click and the tray springs open. Lifting the cigarette pack, she turns back to him and hands it over. “There’s a knack to it,” she explains.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, for want of something better, fingers tightening around his prize. “So I see.” (Why is she still standing there?)

“If you wanted to thank me,” she says, trailing her fingertips across a nearby tabletop as (shoulders back, breasts thrust forwards) she looks up at him through her lashes, “you could buy me a drink.”

(This is a come-on.) (John should be here: he’d find it funny.)

(If he wasn’t trying to chat up the stupid woman himself.)

“Or,” Sherlock replies, suddenly furiously angry, “I could save us both from ten very boring minutes of pointless small talk by telling you that I’m not interested. But thank you. Good-bye!”

Leaving her standing speechless with surprise (though very probably trying to formulate some kind of bitter rejoinder - usually they make accusations of homosexuality or unfavourable comparisons with a horse), he walks quickly away and makes his escape back out onto Baker Street.  


* * * * * * * *

  
Sherlock takes his first drag on a cigarette in fifteen months standing waiting to cross the road into the park. The old, familiar bitterness fills his mouth and burns its way down into his lungs. It’s like coming home: awful and comforting in equal measure, and tinged with guilt.

Dodging the traffic, he takes another, deeper drag. It catches at the back of his throat and makes him cough until his eyes water. When he’s got his breath back, he inhales again. Defiantly. Because he can just imagine the tedious lecture John would be giving him right now if he were here. (Well, sod breathing. Breathing’s boring.) (And sod John too, because it’s none of his business now. It never was.)

Sherlock finishes his cigarette following the footpath beside the boating lake, under the yellow-eyed glare of a heron. He stares back at it coldly and tosses his cigarette butt into the water, startling the bird into taking flight. As it beats the air with grey, heavy wings, Sherlock lights another cigarette and walks on.

The trees are bare and the grass short and scrubby, but there are people picnicking anyway: some with blankets and wicker hampers (tourists), others sitting on spread-out coats and eating out of supermarket carrier bags (office workers); families here, couples there. And friends - so many friends - laughing, talking, or just sitting together in comfortable silence. Sherlock has never felt more like committing murder in his entire life. (But going home isn’t an option. Not yet. Not with all these out-of-control _feelings_.) He walks on.

The footpath takes him away from the lakeside and into the small wooded area to the north. In summer it must be be shaded, but today the sunlight cascades through the leafless branches in shattered panes, so that one moment it’s dark and the next dazzling bright. Already mildly dizzy from chain-smoking two cigarettes after such a long period of abstinence, Sherlock finds it hard to focus and he stumbles over broken umbrella left lying on the path. Kicking it impatiently aside, he has to admit to himself that he needs to sit down. (Should probably drink something too. Eat.)  


* * * * * * * *

  
All the tables outside the Garden Café are taken, but inside, a couple are still vacant. Sherlock buys a coffee and an individual apple tart, then takes a seat by the window, as far away from the café’s other customers as he can get. The coffee is hot and strong, the tart crisp and not too sweet. Even so, it’s an effort to force them down.

He’s about half-way through the coffee and has managed two small bites of the tart when he realizes someone is talking to him. He looks up.

A man: early thirties, sharp suit (works in PR); manicured nails, well moisturised skin (he thinks he’s ‘worth it’); plucked eyebrows, cosmetically whitened teeth (vain); speculative smile (gay).

“Mind if I join you?”

“Very much.”

Laughing, the man takes the seat opposite. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

(Oh god, not again.) “Try pretending you don’t see me now,” Sherlock advises.

“I’m Josh,” the man persists. “I’m here every day. Great coat, by the way. Dolce and Gabbana?”

Sherlock’s insistence on accuracy very nearly tempts him into telling ‘Josh’ that, actually, it’s a Belstaff, but he catches himself just in time. “Oxfam.”

Josh leans forward, ostensibly to examine it, and takes the very end of the cuff between thumb and forefinger. Sherlock quickly pulls his arm way and leans back in his chair.

“Well, it’s very good quality,” Josh assures him. “I’m pretty sure that’s Irish tweed. And the stitching is immaculate. It suits you.”

Sherlock finishes his coffee in one gulp and gets to his feet.

Josh raises his eyebrows and purses his lips in an almost-pout. “Going already? That’s a shame. But hey! Do you like jazz? There’s a pretty good band on at the Clachan tonight if you’re at a loose end,” he says, the remark ending on a rising inflection. (An invitation, then.)

By every objective measure (symmetry of features, clarity of skin and eyes, bone structure, overall proportions), Josh would be considered far more attractive than John. By every _objective_ measure.

Sherlock shakes his head. “I’m not. At a loose end. And I won’t be tonight. Or ever.”

Josh grimaces, and gives himself an embarrassed cuff to the side of the head. “Oh god. Sorry! I didn’t realize. You have someone. Well, of course you do - look at you. But I can usually tell … Sorry.”

Sherlock nods curtly and walks away.  


* * * * * * * *

  
Despite rehearsing his options all the way back to 221B, when he gets there, Sherlock realizes he has no idea what he’s going to say to John - only a whole list of things he isn’t. As he pauses on the steps, composing himself and willing his pulse to stop beating quite so hard, he notices the local free-sheet wedged in the letter box. (Billy - the paper boy - delivers it during his lunch hour. Between 12.30 and 1.15 pm.) Sherlock checks his watch (1.55 pm) and feels a sharp stab of alarm. (When he’s not working, John always pounces on the paper, poring over it for local gossip and special offers.) Sherlock lets himself in and runs up the stairs.

The living room is empty; the kitchen too - but there’s an envelope on the table, propped up against one of Sherlock’s conical flasks, with his name is printed on it in John’s square, neat writing. (Sometimes it’s hard to believe he’s a doctor.) Sherlock picks it up and carries it through to the living room, where he sits in his chair, staring at it for several long minutes.

At last, he finds the courage he needs to open it.

_Sherlock -_

_I think it’s better if I just go. I’ve taken some stuff to be going on with and I’ll collect the rest at a time when I won’t be disturbing you._

_The rent is paid up until the end of this month. Keep my share of it. It’s the least I can do.  
I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll miss you. _

_John._

_P.S. There’s milk and bread in the fridge._  
P.P.S. Bin day is Friday.  
P.P.P.S. Don’t forget your painkillers. And go to A &E immediately if you start feeling any worse. 

(Oh, _John_.) Sherlock’s throat tightens and his eyes start to sting. (Stop it. Stop it now.) He hasn’t cried in twenty-four years.

He crumples the note into a ball, and tosses it into the waste paper bin by the fire, and sits staring numbly into the fake flames until night falls, and they’re the only light in the room.  


* * * * * * * *

  
**_Daylight_**  
   
Sherlock awakes with an all too familiar taste in his mouth. Tobacco, nicotine, smoke, his brain supplies, as he sucks in air, tasting his own tongue and cheeks, and roof of his mouth. But if the cause of this acrid tang is clear (smoking), the reason behind his having fallen off the no-smoking wagon is not. He sits up in bed, scratching the back of his head, as he tries to remember.

(There were cigarettes, smoked in the park, purchased from a pub machine. Cigarettes, after months of nicotine patches and abstinence. There must have been a reason, a good one …)

( _John_.)

(John had sex with Sarah.)

And then it really hits him: John had sex with Sarah and now he’s gone. All the air seems to leave his lungs at once, and inhaling rapidly, deeply, does nothing to make him feel less like he’s suffocating. The weight of his duvet is suddenly oppressive and he fights his way out from under it, before stumbling towards the door. Somehow he makes it to the kitchen and turns on cold tap, bending over the sink to drink directly from the flow. The water is ice cold, like a slap to the face, and at the shock of it, some of his agitation dies back.

Breathing more easily now, he remembers he has still has almost an entire pack of cigarettes. He takes a side plate from the cupboard to act as an ashtray and a box of matches from his chemistry kit, and goes back to bed to smoke.

   
 ** _Darkness_**  
   
When he comes to again, it’s with a violent start. (John. John had a gun. He was advancing. Irresistible.) Shaking, Sherlock sits up and snaps on the lamp. (Just a nightmare, just a nightmare. _The_ nightmare.) (What does it mean? What does it _mean_?)

It means he’s an idiot, he decides, getting out of bed. There’s no need to feel so afraid. Everything has a rational explanation - even the garbled symbolism of dreams. The almost painful erection he’s suddenly aware of has a rational, physiological explanation too. (Spontaneous erections occur during REM sleep, resulting from the stimulation of specific neuro-reflexes.) (The release of nitric oxide, muscular relaxation, increased blood flow, vascular constriction.) (It’s nothing to do with the dream.) (Nothing to do with _John_ ).

Even so, Sherlock is restless and on edge. He picks up his cigarette pack from the floor and flicks it open, only to realize that smoking won’t help. He doesn’t need a clear mind; he needs an occupied one. (There should be a case. Why isn’t there a case? What’s the point of John’s blog if no work results from it?)

And now he needs to piss. Sherlock drags himself to the bathroom and, as he washes his hands afterwards, he tries not to think - yet again - of John shuddering and arching in this very basin, nor of the hot, thick length of him in his hand. He fails - completely - and it’s so ridiculously pathetic, he has to laugh at himself. There used to be a time when his whole world didn’t revolve around John bloody Watson. When the work was all that mattered. He needs something else to think about and quickly.

His violin is on his desk in the living room. He picks it up and bows a couple of mid-range notes - F, G, A - but for some reason they grate. He tries again. F, G, A flat. The minor key is better (much, much better) and he ascends the scale slowly, letting each vibrating note fill the room, before going back down the scale, just as slowly. Each note resonates through him, his taut nerves quivering with the tension of the bow, then evening out into rest. Before he knows it, his fingers are moving over the strings in a more melodic fashion, seeking out the tune that’s started playing at the back of his mind. A little dance up the scale to start with, followed by a quivering top note, a grace note or two, and then it comes to him: Beethoven. He’s not normally a fan of Beethoven - too much passion, a lot of it dark and uncontrolled, but the Violin Romance in F Minor is poignant, though restrained, with a real sense of rising above the idiocy of feelings and heartbreak to reach something clean and pure. He plays it through to the end, places his violin and bow back carefully in their case, and - even though he doesn’t expect to sleep - goes back to bed.  


* * * * * * * *

  
**_Greyness_ **

Traffic noise doesn’t usually wake Sherlock (it would be impossible to live in central London if it did), but there’s something about the stop-start rumble of the HGV engine making slow progress down Baker Street that won’t let him ignore it. The flash of an orange light quickly explains why: it must be Friday (’bin day’ as John calls it). Sherlock hasn’t so much forgotten to bag up the rubbish and put it out, as forgotten that it’s his job to do it now, not John’s.

Reaching for his cigarettes, he lights one, then after a couple of drags, drifts into the kitchen to make a mug of tea, poking half-heartedly at the equipment for his long-since completed experiment into testing for equine doping which still occupies most of the table as he waits for the tea to infuse. (John was always complaining about all the bottles and jars, the insanitary properties of experimental fluids and the lack of space.) 

(Well, there’s plenty of space now.) 

Sherlock picks up a conical flask - _the_ conical flask - and hurls it at the wall above the sink. It shatters into a satisfying explosion of glass. He flings his teabag after it, but - hot and dripping - it’s less aerodynamic and falls to the floor with a wet plop. Leaving it where it lands, he goes back to bed.  


* * * * * * * *

  
**_Greyness_ **

When Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he finds himself wide awake, his watch tells him it’s 3.05 am: night time, and thus time to sleep. His brain disagrees, insisting he should be up and doing something, and try as he might, he can’t get back to sleep, so he rises, dresses and repairs to the living room where he practices scales and arpeggios until his fingers ache and the repetitiveness of it finally gets his brain to shut the hell up.  


* * * * * * * *

  
**_Daylight_**  
   
Saturday morning dawns bright and sunny - in direct contrast to Sherlock’s own mood. After so many days of nothingness, he’s frustrated and bored. No, scrub that - he’s angry. Angry with John. If he were here, he might take him up on that offer to punch him - and he’d definitely use his gun to fire a few more shots into the wall to make his anger very clear. As it is, all he has in the way of an offensive weapon is his riding crop. He snatches it up from the top of his chest of drawers and makes his way into the living room, dealing vicious blows to random bits of furniture as he passes. One of the table lamps succumbs to a backhanded swipe, and an overarm assault on the wall lifts a great welt of wallpaper away from the wall. A third blow smashes one of the glass panels in the sliding door.

Almost immediately, there are footsteps on the stairs, and a minute later, Mrs Hudson is standing on the landing doorway, hands on her hips, and the curls of her fringe trembling with outrage. “Sherlock!” she cries, surveying the damage. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, young man - keeping the whole building awake with your violin playing all night and now this - but I want this mess cleared up - _now_!”

Sherlock screws his nose up and thrusts his face forward, mimicking her rage. “I want this mess cleared up now!” he sing-songs back at her, the relief of being able to vent at last making the blood pound in his ears.

Mrs Hudson narrows her eyes at him. “Where’s John?” she demands, looking around. “You’re not worth talking to when you’re like this.”

“John,” Sherlock mutters, pacing about wildly. “John. I’m sure he must be here somewhere. Now, let’s see. Is he under the table?” Gripping it by the edge of the top, he overturns it in one quick, savage movement, drawing a grasp of shock from Mrs Hudson. “No. Perhaps he’s behind the curtains?” He whisks them away from the windows with a violent tug that makes the curtain rail above him creak on its fixtures. “No, he doesn’t appear to be here either.” He spins around, eyes wide in fake surprise. “Oh dear, Mrs Hudson! Wherever can he be? I seem to have mislaid him!”

Mrs Hudson’s look of irritation gives way to one of distress and she clasps a hand to her mouth. “Oh, no, Sherlock - he hasn’t?” She shakes her head (unwilling to believe it.) “No, he wouldn’t. He’s far too sensible. It’s just a tiff, you’ll see. He’ll be back. He thinks far too much of you to-” Sherlock opens his mouth to put her right, but she presses on. “No, don’t look at me like that. You’re not the only one who observes, Sherlock. That boy _adores_ you. Why else would he put up with you?”

There’s something about the way she says it (the total sincerity, the absolute conviction, and the sympathetic light in her eyes) that takes the wind right out of Sherlock’s sails, and he drops into his armchair, deflated. “He’s gone, Mrs Hudson,” he says dully. “And he’s not coming back.”

Mrs Hudson steps forward and gives him a maternal pat on the shoulder. “There, there, dear. Don’t get upset. It’ll all look better in the morning.”

Rolling his eyes in exasperation at the platitude, Sherlock sighs. “I’m _not_ upset, Mrs Hudson. And it _is_ morning.”  


* * * * * * * *

  
**_Later_**  
   
It seems to be his day for concerned visitors, Sherlock thinks resentfully when, mid-afternoon, Mrs Hudson opens the door and shows Lestrade in.

The inspector stands for a minute in the doorway, sniffing the air, then chuckles. “That’s a tenner you owe me,” he says, grinning. “I always _knew_ you’d crack first.”

“A _fiver_ ,” Sherlock snaps. “We said a _fiver_.”

Lestrade shakes his head. “No,” he insists. “ _I_ said a fiver, but you were so sure you could stick at it, you upped it to a tenner.”

He’s right, of course - and Sherlock isn’t going to stoop to pleading extenuating circumstances, no matter how much his world has been turned upside down. “You’ll have to wait until I’ve been to the bank,” he mutters, briefly entertaining the idea of lighting up just to see whether Lestrade’s willpower is as good as he seems to think it is.

“Fair enough,” Lestrade agrees, as he approaches the armchair Sherlock hasn’t moved out of since morning. “How’s the head? Feeling any better?”

“Not especially.”

Lestrade presses his lips together and nods gravely. “Still, these things probably take time. Soon be back on your feet again, yeah? Here-” He holds out a brown paper bag. “- I got you some grapes.”

Sherlock gives the offering a disdainful glance before tossing his head and looking away. (Why is Lestrade here? He doesn’t make social calls.) (Someone must have told him that John’s moved out.) (Who? Mrs Hudson? John?) “I don’t like grapes.”

“Yeah, well, never mind that,” Lestrade says, putting them down on the arm of Sherlock’s chair anyway and settling into John’s- into _the other_ armchair. “They’re good for you and you want to get better, right?”

“Do I?”

A look of shock passes over Lestrade’s face, but he quickly masters it. “Of course you do. A nice juicy case, and you’ll be right as rain again.”

(He _knows_. Someone has definitely told him.) “Have you got one?” Sherlock demands, half out of a desire to call Lestrade’s bluff, and half because he thinks he’ll go mad if he doesn’t find something other than John to think about soon.

“How d’you fancy getting your teeth stuck into a case of vampirism?” Lestrade asks, with a little laugh at his own joke. “Bloke in Battersea reckons he saw his wife sucking blood from her own kid. The little boy’s got two little puncture wounds right here.” He raises his chin and tilts his head to tap two fingers against the side of his neck. “We’re holding her on a charge of ABH.”

Sherlock feels a flicker of interest. “What does the wife say?”

Lestrade shrugs. “Nothing. As yet. We’re waiting for an interpreter. She’s South American - from some tiny little village in the middle of nowhere.”

“An unusual location for a ‘bloke from Battersea’ to find a wife,” Sherlock remarks, pressing his hands together, thoughtfully.

“He was out there collecting,” Lestrade explains. “He’s an entomologist at Imperial. Studies insects.”

“Yes, thank you, Lestrade. I know what an entomologist is,” Sherlock says, his interest fading. “My money would be on the child having been bitten or stung by one of the husband’s specimens. Sucking the site of a sting to remove venom is long established folk remedy in isolated communities. If that’s the best you can do, you might as well leave now.”

Lestrade frowns, and his gaze slides off to the left. (He’s sifting through his current caseload, hunting for something interesting.) “Got an eighty-nine year old lady, found dead in a old people’s home in Brent Park,” he says, after a few moments’ reflection.

“An _eighty-nine year old_?” Sherlock sneers, incredulous. “Cut down in her prime, was she?”

“There’s no need to be funny about it,” Lestrade returns with a sniff. “The thing is, the son suspected foul play and paid for a private post-mortem.”

Sherlock leans forward. “And?”

Lestrade’s eyes twinkle triumphantly. “The pathologist only went and found chronic cyanide poisoning, didn’t he? So we did a thorough investigation of the premises - staff, residents, the lot - and discovered one of the care assistants - a chap called Nelligan - had given the CRB a fake ID. Turns out he’s got previous for GBH. He’s been remanded on custody, pending the trial.” Lestrade pauses. “But there’s something about this case that doesn’t sit right with me, you know?”

“Well, of course there is,” Sherlock says. “Nelligan didn’t do it.”

“You can’t-”

“Oh god, isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock sighs. “Nelligan wouldn’t have had access to cyanide: it’s not something you pick up with the milk and beans at Tesco’s, is it? You’re looking for someone medically trained, registered with the local authority. Someone cunning, and with a cool head. Possibly a pharmacist - but if we assume the victim didn’t get out much, more likely a doctor. I take it the home had regular visits?”

“A _doctor_?” Lestrade exclaims, shocked.

“It’s hardly unheard of,” Sherlock sighs. “Palmer, Pritchard, Shipman. Doctors make the worst criminals, Lestrade. They’re clever and they know everyone thinks they’re saints. Let Nelligan go, and arrest the doctor. Anything else?”

“ ‘Fraid not,” Lestrade says, still looking a bit shell-shocked. “All the others are what I’d call ‘human tragedies’, and what you’d call ‘boring’. Though maybe something simple might be good for you,” he adds, rubbing his chin. “At the moment.”

(Whilst you’re getting used to having to live on your own again, he means - only he’s too mealy-mouthed to say it.) Sherlock regards him coldly. “At the moment?”

Lestrade ought to know better than to allow his eyes to dart towards the door; it’s a dead give-away. (He’s thinking about John, about John having left.) “You know, whilst you’re recovering from that blow to the head,” he says hastily with as fake a jokey grin as Sherlock has ever seen.

Unable to bear such obvious pity - or such a feeble effort to conceal it - Sherlock stands and says crisply, “Good-bye, Lestrade.”

Following his lead, Lestrade rises too, but instead of making for the door, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and shuffles his feet. “He’ll be back, you know,” he says, mostly to the carpet.

“How would you know?” Sherlock snorts. “You’re not exactly an expert on these things, are you? Did your wife come back?”

Lestrade visibly flinches. “No,” he mumbles. “No, she didn’t - but she had someone else.”

(Yes. _Exactly_ ).

“You’re better off without her,” Sherlock says, steering Lestrade towards the door, eager to see him gone and to shut it behind him. “She was out of your league.”

“Look, Sherlock - “ Lestrade hesitates, turning around to look up at him. His brows are raised, but there are little worry lines between them, and something like fear in his eyes. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

“I’m not an idiot, Lestrade.”

“Never said you were. But just don’t, okay?”

“Good-bye, Lestrade,” Sherlock says wearily. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be fine.”  


* * * * * * * *

  
**_Darkness_ **

After five hours, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and failing to fall asleep, it’s finally clear to Sherlock that he isn’t fine and that he may never be again. He can’t remember ever being so completely and utterly bloody pathetic: not on the day Mycroft left for university, leaving him alone in that enormous, cold house with Mother; not on the night Mother ‘forgot’ to wish him goodnight; not on the day that Father left; nor even on that day on the beach …

(This is all John’s fault. Couldn’t keep it in his bloody trousers, not even for one sodding night.)

Sherlock gets out of bed and, having dressed, leaves his room to mount the stairs to John’s. There must be something in there that he can rip to shreds, something he can tear apart with his bare hands, the way John has torn him apart.

He opens the door.

It’s the very last thing he should have done, he realizes at once. It’s not a crime scene, but his senses have all leapt to attention as though it were, and his eyes are travelling over the furniture noting ever detail of them - the position of the chair (tucked neatly under the table), the outline of the bed, the flat smooth expanse of the duvet, the plumped up pillow, the emptied waste paper basket, and the meticulously cleared desk. In the quiet emptiness, the ticking of John’s alarm clock is loud and ominous, but that’s not what makes Sherlock reel; it’s the subtle scent of John permeating the air. Unable to stop himself, he crosses to the wardrobe and opens it. Several of John’s work suits are still there, hanging from the aluminium rail, with several pairs of his shoes lined up underneath them. Almost as if John were standing there. Sherlock reaches out and runs a hand down the sleeve of a jacket, but without John inside it, it just makes him feel emptier still, not comforted. He turns to the shelves. A jumper, he wants a jumper. Something soft, something properly _John_. He grabs the top one from the folded pile: blue and white, striped. Soft against his fingertips, fragrant when he buries his nose in it.

(Oh, bloody, bloody hell!)

Sherlock backs away from the wardrobe and sinks down onto the bed, still clutching the jumper to his chest and laughing bitterly. This isn’t John’s fault; it’s _his_. He’s known all his life - or at least, most of it - that it’s safer to keep people at arms length. That if you want to stay sane, you don’t care about them.

He tosses the jumper aside and stands. He may not be able to simply think himself out of this weak-minded attachment, but fortunately there’s another solution, one that served him well in the past.  


* * * * * * * *

  
Just over an hour later, Sherlock is stepping out of a taxi in Stepney, a handful notes ready in the inside pocket of his coat. Even in the early hours of the morning, the street is a familiar; it’s one he frequented years ago, when he first came to London; he just hopes the back alley he’s heading for is still as dodgy.

The sound of his heels striking relatively smooth tarmac dies away as he turns into the alley itself. To his right, there’s a white-washed wall, bright under a street-lamp but daubed with graffiti; to his left, a high, wooden fence, skirted by weeds; and in front of him, a row of garages with battered, metal doors. Outside of one of these, a small group of men in hooded tops and peaked caps has gathered - one with a solid bull terrier straining on a metal studded lead - and from somewhere nearby comes the steady thump of sound system with the bass turned up high.

Sherlock walks over and joins the huddle, noting the sweet smell of cannabis smoke warming the night air.

A scrawny kid with bad skin, bad teeth and a feral eye looks him up and down critically. Sherlock doesn’t flinch, just looks right back at him. A few tense seconds pass, then the kid nods. “I got uppers, downers, poppers, puff, C, Crystal an’ Donkey Dust.”

“Coke,” Sherlock replies.

The kid pulls a clear, plastic wrap from a pocket. “Sixty.”

Sherlock produces two of his twenty-pound notes. “Forty,” he counters. (Pay too much, and they’ll take you for an idiot, or the police.)

With a sigh of resignation, the kid plucks the notes from his fingers and hands the wrap over. Sherlock feels like sighing too - with relief. He’ll get a taxi back to Baker Street, cut the miraculous powder into four creamy lines, and inhale them one after the other. And then everything will be fine again.

Well, that’s the plan. A sudden screech of tyres from first one, then the other, end of the alley has him drastically revising it, and the pounding of Metropolitan Police issue black boots over tarmac persuades him tossing his purchase, and taking to his heels like the more limber of the kid’s customers are already doing, would be a very, very good idea.

But it’s too late. He’s hardly run three yards before a PC built like the proverbial brick shithouse has him in an armlock, painfully snapping on handcuffs whilst ironically informing him of his right to remain silent. Along with the kid, and four of the other buyers, Sherlock is unceremoniously flung into the back of a van and driven away.  


* * * * * * * *

  
**_Later_**  
   
The holding cell measures five by eight feet, and smells of urine and fear. There’s a concrete bench with a thin, dark blanket against the back wall and metal bucket in the corner. The door is solid and made of steel. It closes with an impressive clang, that far outdoes the subsequent sliding of bolts and the turning of keys.

How long will Sherlock have to be here? He’d check the passage of time by consulting his watch if only they hadn’t taken it away - along with his wallet, belt and shoes. He slumps down on the bench and waits.  


* * * * * * * *

  
**_Later still … Morning?_**  
   
Sherlock has been pacing the cell with increasing agitation for some time when at last the door swings open and Donovan strides in, somehow managing to look down on him, despite his greater height. At her back, a fresh-faced uniformed officer stands at attention in the doorway, as if to dissuade Sherlock from trying to make a run for it.

“Always knew you’d end up in a cell,” Donovan says as she approaches, self-satisfaction giving her voice an extra-nasal twang.

“Sally.” Sherlock fakes a smile. “How kind of you to visit.” He sounds a lot calmer than he feels, and the effort is worth it to see her jaw tighten and her nostrils flare with anger.

“D’you know what the penalty is for possession of cocaine?” she asks, walking around him with all her usual swagger. “An unlimited fine and up to seven years in prison. Wonder how many visitors you’ll get then. Not got many friends, have you, freak?”

(One. I’ve got one.) Sherlock swallows. ( _Had_ one.)

“Don’t know who I feel more sorry for,” Donovan continues, warming to her theme, “you or the guy who ends up being your cell-mate.” She laughs. “No, I do: definitely your cell-mate.”

It’s not that Sherlock isn’t used to taunting - he’s experienced it all his life, in one form or another, and mostly it slides off him, because other people are generally stupid, and their opinion doesn’t count; it’s just that today, in this moment, in this cold, ugly Bishopsgate’s cell, he’s all too aware that not many people care about him. He stands taller (because the alternative is crumpling). 

“Oh for god’s sake, charge me,” he drawls, “before I die of boredom.”

Donovan’s eyes flash and her chin juts, as her top lip curls into a sneer. “If it was up to me,” she says, oozing contempt, “they’d lock you up and throw away the key before you can do any real damage-”

( _If_? Ah!) “But it’s _not_ , is it?” Sherlock asks, cutting her short. “Up to you. Who told you they were letting me go? Lestrade? My brother?”

Ignoring the question, Donovan sighs. “Just go and pick up your things from the duty sergeant, freak.”

Sherlock blinks at her. “You’re driving me home?”

“Looks like it,” she replies, with a small shake of her head, as if she can’t believe it either.

Sherlock collects his things.

The journey back to Baker Street is a silent one. Donovan doesn’t speak and, following her example, neither does her uniformed sidekick. Meanwhile, Sherlock is too busy turning things over in his mind for conversation. (Getting driven home in a police car means official intervention of some sort - possibly Lestrade because, god knows, he needs all the help he can get when it comes to anything complex - but, more probably … Mycroft … oh, dear god, please not Mycroft. The lecture is going to be intolerable.)  


* * * * * * * *

  
**_February 8th, 2pm_ **

“I don’t want any more, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock pleads as Mrs Hudson ladles out another bowl of thick broth for him. “I’ve had enough already!”

Mrs Hudson sets the bowl down in front of him and folds her arms, the ladle angled across her chest like some kind of mediaeval weapon. “I’m not going to stand by whilst you pine away, young man,” she says, firmly. “Eat it. Besides, you’ll be needing your strength. Your brother’s coming round.”

“Oh god,” Sherlock groans, head in his hands. “Whatever did I do to deserve that?”

“You got yourself arrested. For drugs.”

“Please, Mrs Hudson-”

An imperious rap at the door downstairs cuts Sherlock off (it’s too late for pleading) and Mrs Hudson hurries off to let Mycroft in.  


* * * * * * * *

  
Mycroft enters 221B gripping his umbrella like a totem, as if its tightly wound folds might offer protection against what clearly, to him, is the flat’s squalor and untidiness. Leaving Mrs Hudson to close the door discreetly behind him (really, must she act as if this were a longed-for family reunion?), he walks up to Sherlock and, holding out a gloved hand, demands without preamble, “Your cigarettes, please, Sherlock.”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demands in return.

Mycroft sucks his teeth, then sighs. “As ever, I’m concerned about you. You were arrested for possession of a Class A drug, for goodness sake - and I know you: one little slip so frequently leads to another. One moment you’re falling off the non-smoking bandwagon, and the next it’s controlled substances. If only you could learn to forgive yourself the odd relapse - but then, you always were an all-or-nothing sort of fellow, weren’t you? About _everything_. “ He pauses, arching a brow, as if to invite agreement but when Sherlock refuses to reply, he thrusts his hand out again, this time more emphatically. “Your cigarettes, Sherlock. _Now_.” His tone of voice is just like Father’s; his expression too. (The same disappointment, dismay and disgust.)

If Sherlock weren’t so tired, or so full of Mrs Hudson’s soup, he might argue, or even manhandle Mycroft off the premises. As it is, the most resistance he can muster is a spot of childish face-pulling before giving in to the inevitable and pulling the cigarettes from his pocket. He tosses them ungraciously to Mycroft with a snapped, “There. Close the door on your way out.”

Mycroft catches the pack deftly and tucks it inside his jacket. “I think not,” he replies, lips curling into a slow, triumphant smile. “In fact, with your permission, I’ll take a seat.” _If_ Mycroft has ever asked permission for anything in his entire adult life (which is highly unlikely), he’s clearly forgotten how it’s done because he immediately occupies Sherlock’s favourite chair and stretches his legs out, crossing them at the ankles in clear indication of his intention to stay. He spends a few moments fastidiously brushing a speck of something from the arm of the chair, before announcing, “I have a job for you.”

Sherlock scowls at him. “What kind of job?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Mycroft purrs. “Nothing tedious. Nothing you’d consider beneath your especial talents. It concerns … well, let’s just say ‘a gentleman of some repute’. Someone has stolen something from him, Sherlock - something which I should like you and Doctor Watson to retrieve.”

Sherlock’s heart lurches at the mention of John’s name, but he keeps his expression carefully blank. “I don’t do burglaries, Mycroft. Call the police in.”

Mycroft twirls the handle of his umbrella through a couple of revolutions. “It’s not a simple burglary, Sherlock. Only one item was taken and that-” He clears his throat. (Mycroft embarrassed? What is this?) “- was something potentially rather sensitive.”

Despite himself, Sherlock feels his interest stir. “Sensitive as in state secrets?” he sneers. “Don’t tell me you’ve had another security leak at the MoD? Really, Mycroft - to lose one set of missile plans might be regarded a misfortune-”

 

Mycroft stops idly twirling his umbrella and catches it in a grip of steel. “Very funny,” he snarls, but almost instantly his tone is neutral again, and his expression that of a man only mildly inconvenienced. “No, nothing so public. This is something more … personal.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Personal in what way?”

“Oh, just a photograph,” Mycroft replies, with a blithe shrug of his shoulders. (And there’s that bland smile back again: the one that’s meant to make light of a subject which, in fact, means the matter is a serious one.) “A memento.”

“One that could be used for blackmail?”

Mycroft’s smile sets hard around the edges. “Possibly. Though, as yet, the thieves have not been in contact, which may mean they have no idea what they’ve stolen. The photograph was kept in a rather valuable antique box, you see. Howell James. Late nineteenth century.”

“What kind of photo?” Sherlock presses. (The box is obviously irrelevant.)

“I haven’t been given the details. All I know is that the party concerned is most anxious that the box be recovered before the thieves find a way to open it. Can I rely on you?”

Sherlock considers his options: there’s sitting about, driving himself insane with jealousy and loss; or there’s doing Mycroft a favour. Little though the latter appeals, it’s infinitely preferable to the former. “You’ll pay my usual fee?” he asks.

“I stood you bail!” Mycroft cries with a gratifying splutter. (It’s always funny when Mycroft is outraged.) “I have also retained the services of the country’s foremost defence lawyer - at not inconsiderable cost and inconvenience, as I’m sure you’ll realize - in case the matter should ever go to court.”

“And bribed a few people to stop that from happening too?” Sherlock asks. It’s meant to be a barb, but a spot of colour appears on Mycroft’s cheeks at the suggestion, and the sight is actually rather endearing and more than a little shaming. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock sinks down into the chair opposite him. “All right. You win. I’ll do it.”

“We both win,” Mycroft counters, getting more comfortable in his chair, like a dog settling into a favourite spot. (What? Why? Agreeing to help was supposed to encourage him to leave, not stay!) “You take a little trip to the Cotswolds to do this for me, and in return I keep you from returning to bad habits, getting a custodial sentence and ruining your career. You _will_ promise me you won’t try to buy any more, won’t you?”

(Oh god - here it comes: the lecture.)

“I’m not an addict, Mycroft.”

“No,” Mycroft agrees. “You’re not.” He pauses, needlessly examining the perfectly manicured nails of his left hand. “Well, not to the cocaine, anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that this whole episode was obviously triggered by Doctor Watson’s decision to cease residing here,” Mycroft replies. He leans forward. “Would you like to tell me what happened? Were you too rough with him?”

Sherlock finds himself staring at his brother, unable to make sense of the question. Meanwhile, Mycroft’s beady, all-seeing eyes scan his face, ruthlessly assessing his response.

After a moment, Mycroft nods to himself. “Ah,” he murmurs. “Yes. I see the problem now.”

As so often in Mycroft’s presence, Sherlock feels an urgent need to get away, to hide, because (damn him to hell) Mycroft is horribly skilled at seeing right into his head, at understanding what’s going on there - sometimes even before Sherlock does himself. “What the hell are you talking about?” he scoffs, deciding to brazen it out.

Mycroft’s smile turns positively reptilian. “Never mind that now. Just tell me what happened.”

Sherlock’s first instinct is to tell him to piss off, and to underline the message by throwing something at him (there’s a weighty book within reach and the coal scuttle is temptingly handy), but he learnt long ago that masking emotion is the surest way to guarantee being left alone. A brief summary of the facts should do the trick. “He had sex with Sarah, felt the need to tell me about it, then moved out,” Sherlock says briskly, as if reeling off information he’s gleaned from a crime scene. “End of.”

Unfortunately, his matter-of-fact approach completely fails to deflect Mycroft. “And you did nothing to stop him?”

(Of course not! What if it hadn’t worked? The rejection - the shame - would have been unbearable.) Sherlock’s skin crawls at the very thought. “Why would I? D’you know what real people - _ordinary_ people - have in their lives, Mycroft? They have real relationships. Nice, normal ones. That’s what John has now.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft admonishes, with a click of his tongue. “Surely by now you must know that John doesn’t want nice and normal; he wants _you_.”

“Then why did he leave?” Sherlock spits, before he can stop himself.

Mycroft sighs. “Because you let him. When what he really wanted was for you to stop him.”

Remembering all the times John has argued with him, or criticised him, or just looked at him with pained disapproval, Sherlock snorts. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Mycroft shakes his head, smiling sympathetically. “Perhaps you should examine the evidence. Does the good doctor not drop everything, whenever you ask? Does he not willingly throw himself into danger at your behest? Would he not walk barefoot through fire if you told him to?”

Sherlock gives a short, hard laugh. “There’s no need to be so melodramatic, Mycroft.”

More head shaking from Mycroft, more sympathetic smiling. “Ah, but there is. You see, Doctor Watson has always craved a bit of melodrama, a bit of excitement. It’s why he joined the army instead of pursuing his calling in the more predictable sphere of civilian life. Look at him: from the outside, an ordinary man, average in every way. Average height, average build, average colouring, average features.” Sherlock manages to fight back a sharp impulse to argue that John is slighter than average, better proportioned, and stronger; that his colouring is perfect, his face impossibly boyish, and Mycroft goes on. “And yet, inside that unassuming exterior lurk nerves of steel, huge reserves of courage and a first-rate mind. He may not be brilliant but he is extraordinary, and yet almost no-one recognises it. Not his family, nor his colleagues; not even his brothers-in-arms. But you do. You wouldn’t have tolerated his presence for more than five minutes otherwise, let alone have decided to share a flat with him. Have you any idea what that means to him? That someone like you sees him for what he is?”

Sherlock is speechless, and it’s a struggle even to manage an unsteady, “I-I-”

Mycroft leans in again. “Now imagine,” he says, lowering his voice, eyes gleaming, “how he must have felt when you allowed him to walk away.”

Sherlock wants to laugh in his face but, with his softly hypnotic, unblinking eyes and his gentle, confiding tones, Mycroft is like that bloody snake in _The Jungle Book_ , and it’s all too easy to let your guard down long enough to believe what he’s saying, to imagine the fantasies he’s weaving with his words might be real and concrete possibilities. At the thought that John might really still want him, Sherlock’s throat tightens, his belly too, and … (NO! No getting hard in front of Mycroft.)

(And it’s all nonsense anyway. John _had sex with Sarah_.)

“He made his choice,” Sherlock says, firmly, because all these What Ifs and Maybes have to stop before he falls apart.

But Mycroft won’t let it rest. “Oh, Sherlock,” he says sadly, “you’re exceptionally talented in matters of observation. Do you really not know what he wants? Why he told you about Sarah?”

Sherlock wishes he’d lit the fire. Holding his hand in the flames would be less painful than this. “He wanted me to be angry. But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.”

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his noise and an exasperated groan escapes him. “My dear, dear brother, if you’d thought about his satisfaction earlier, you might not be in this mess. As it is, I’m afraid you’re going to have to take drastic action.”

“What?”

“As you so rightly observed, he wanted - wants - you to be angry. He wants you to show some emotion, to claim him, to punish him, to make him yours. And he wants you to do it in no uncertain terms.”

“What?” Sherlock says again. (This must be how Anderson feels most of the time - catching the odd snippet of meaning but missing the essential point.) (It’s ghastly. Humiliating.) (Why won’t Mycroft _stop_?)

Mycroft prods thoughtfully at one of his pre-molars with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock can only pray the tooth is hurting him. “Has he never told you about Warrant Officer Jenkins?”

Although the name is unfamiliar, Sherlock remembers the rank (‘Jenkins’ must be the warrant officer John supposedly didn’t have sex with) and this new information makes him bristle with anger at John - and more than a little resentment towards Mycroft for knowing more than he does. “Why don’t _you_ tell me about him?” he asks nastily. “Since you obviously know so much.”

Mycroft raises an appeasing hand. “I couldn’t possibly. You need to hear it from John. Or - better still - work it out for yourself.” He pauses, raising his eyebrows and opening both eyes wide as if he’s just given Sherlock the most obvious clue, but Sherlock can’t imagine what he’s driving at, and so, with a sigh, Mycroft continues. “John’s therapist thinks - quite rightly as it happens - that he has trust issues. From what I’ve been able to ascertain, I believe Warrant Officer Jenkins may have attempted to help him with the problem - in some circumstances it’s so much easier to trust yourself to someone you don’t really care about than to someone you love - but in the end the … _therapy_ was not successful and John moved on.” Mycroft sniffs. “Probably just as well. Jenkins’ intellect was significantly inferior, and the man wasn’t blessed with an abundance of courage when the chips were down.”

“You researched him?” Sherlock asks, appalled. “You researched John?”

“Well, of course I did!” Mycroft laughs. “I couldn’t have just anyone moving in with my little brother, could I?” As the words leave his mouth, his expression turns much, much softer - kinder, protective - and suddenly Sherlock feels like a kid again, because that look is exactly the one Mycroft used to give him - the one Sherlock always hated it because he thought it was one of pity and superiority, and that Mycroft thought he was _stupid_ , when all the time it was this: love.

It’s too much to process all at once. If only Mycroft would leave, _now_ , Sherlock might have time to absorb it all, to redraw his mental map, and refurnish the rooms in his head, but Mycroft doesn’t budge, just sits there with an expectant look on his face.

Well, if Mycroft won’t move, Sherlock will have to. He gets up and crosses over to the window. “Why are you telling me all this?” he mutters, gazing down at the rain-spattered street below. He hears Mycroft chair creak, and feels him come to stand close behind him.

“Because you are not without talent or usefulness to your country,” Mycroft says, in his typically detached tone. “Because there are only so many favours I can call in to protect you from yourself, and because you’re my brother. You are proof of your own theory, you know: people in love lose all ability to see what’s right in front of them.”

Sherlock spins around in alarm. “I’m not-”

“You haven’t even deduced that much? It’s worse than I feared! Fortunately for you, the object of your affections reciprocates them fully. All you have to do is get him back.”

All? Sherlock nearly laughs. “What would be the point? You know I don’t do relationships.”

Mycroft gives him a long, probing look. “Oh, dear lord - you’re not still labouring under the ridiculous notion that you were in any way responsible for Mummy and Daddy divorcing, are you?”

“It was my fault. You didn’t see how he looked at me. Afterwards. I break things, Mycroft. I always have.” Sherlock swallows hard. He can scarcely bear to think about it, but the memories are flying back into his head thick and fast anyway: the beach, how cold it was in the darkness when everyone else was warm and in the light; the man; his hands; Mycroft’s furious rescue; Father’s growing distance; and Mother, crying, the day Father left.

Mycroft gives a soft growl of exasperation. “There was no _afterwards_ \- not as far as Daddy was concerned. I keep telling you. Why won’t you believe me? I never breathed a word of it, because you begged me not to, even though I thought - still think - we should have called the police and had the pervert flung into jail-”

“He didn’t do anything,” Sherlock protests, infuriated at his own weakness - both then and now. “Not really.”

Mycroft reaches out and places an awkward hand on his arm. “He made you ashamed.”

To his horror, Sherlock sees a tremor go through his fingers, and his mouth tastes suddenly hot and salty, as though he’s about to throw up. (I was already ashamed. Father _knew_ and he hated me for it.)

“You were _eleven_ , Sherlock,” Mycroft says firmly. “Let it go. All of it. Because whilst it’s true that Father wasn’t exactly delighted that his favourite son was showing every sign of being a homosexual - d’you remember how you’d spend ages hanging around that stable boy who always worked stripped to the waist? - none of it was your fault.”

Sherlock can’t believe his ears. “His favourite?”

Mycroft raises both eyebrows. “You didn’t know? Well, I suppose one can’t expect a child’s observational skills to be fully developed. Yes, you were his favourite. He saw a lot of himself in you: you were quick, clever, good-looking and witty. Just like Daddy. Except he was incorrigibly unfaithful. He had dozens of affairs. You were too young to realize it.” Mycroft pauses and gives a wry laugh. “I wonder how he’d feel if he were to discover his other son inherited that trait.”

“What … you…?”

“Yes. But, unlike Daddy, I have never pretended to be anything other than I am. I’m not a family man and it’s not in my nature to be faithful. But it _is_ in yours. Excessively so. As I said earlier, with you, it’s always been All or Nothing. I doubt you’ll ever want anyone else. Which is why I took the liberty of texting John before I came here. Pretending to be you, of course.”

“You did wha-?” Sherlock begins but before he can finish, he hears the front door downstairs bang shut.

“Ah,” Mycroft smiles, checking his watch. “I do believe that’s him now. Would you like to see what you said?” He hands Sherlock his mobile.

Text: Come to Baker Street AT ONCE.

John’s footsteps are on the stairs now. (He’s running up them, not walking. Is he eager? Angry? Why has he come at all?) Sherlock holds his breath. Then a key turns in the flat door’s lock and John walks in.

Even in his agitated state, even with his whole body flushing with pleasure at the sight of him, Sherlock notices the way John’s stops minutely in his tracks, his pupils darkening as their eyes meet, his lips parting. (This is want, desire). Sherlock is experiencing plenty of desire himself (that mouth is asking to be kissed, that body begging to be held close) and it makes him feel as if he might dissolve on the spot. He daren’t actually speak and, as the silence extends, John’s eyebrows pull together into a frown.

“I got your text,” he says. “It sounded important.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees Mycroft grin. John must have followed his gaze because now he does a double-take, as if he hadn’t even been aware of Mycroft’s presence before. “Oh. Mycroft. Hello. Am I, uh, interrupting?”

“On the contrary!” Mycroft exclaims, walking over to shake him warmly by the hand. “It’s good to see you again, John. Don’t worry - I’m just going. I’ll leave you and my brother to … sort out your differences. This is the address, Sherlock.” He withdraws a white card from a pocket, lays it down on the table top, next to Sherlock’s violin and gives it a couple of attention-claiming taps with a fingertip. “Sir William is expecting you tomorrow afternoon, so I suggest you take the nine-fifteen from Paddington to Cheltenham Spa. I’ve reserved accommodation for you both at a local pub. Good-bye, John. And Sherlock - don’t mess it up this time.”

Although Sherlock's skin prickles with embarrassment at the comment, he tells himself that there's no reason why John should think it anything other than Mycroft's usual high-handedness, but as the door closes behind Mycroft, John looks up and asks, "Mess what up?"

His hair is wet from the rain, the shoulders of his jacket too, and there’s a raindrop on his cheek, another trickling down to his jaw ...

“The case,” Sherlock says quickly - and he’s rather proud of the impressively bored tone he achieves, given the way his heart is thumping, and every fibre of his body is straining towards John. “Apparently the client is a ‘man of some repute’ - whatever that means. You know what Mycroft’s like.”

“Hmm,” John nods, glancing about him in an assessing, proprietorial manner that Sherlock finds absurdly reassuring. (He still thinks of this as home, as _his_ home.). “I thought he might have been talking about the flat. What happened to the kitchen door?”

Sherlock, who hasn’t spared the kitchen door a single moment’s thought since cracking his crop against it, and who’s scarcely even noticed until now that the floor is no longer littered with shards of glass, rakes around frantically for an explanation. “Wind,” he says at last. “The kitchen window was open, air pressure outside the building higher than the pressure inside. The glass got blown out. By the wind.”

John doesn’t look entirely convinced by the explanation - in fact, there’s something suspiciously like a smile playing around the corner of his mouth - but he nods and murmurs, “Wind. Well, fancy that. Anyway, what did you want?”

“Want?” Sherlock asks, his mind a blank because John is so close, he could reach out and touch him. Kiss him.

“You texted me,” John reminds him. “It sounded urgent.”

The easiest thing would be to tell him the truth, and blame it on Mycroft; on the other hand, John didn’t come here for Mycroft, he came for Sherlock. Perhaps Mycroft was right. Perhaps John does still want him. Hope flutters around Sherlock’s ribcage, and up into his throat. It’s a terrifying sensation.

“Mycroft has a case for me,” he says. “And you know I’d be lost without my blogger.”

Sherlock was hoping his ironic use of the phrase, and the memories it must evoke, might clinch the deal but John seems unmoved - disappointed even. “You want me to help? As your blogger?”

“As my friend,” Sherlock amends hastily, pulling the most imploring face he has in his repertoire.

But, if anything, John looks even less impressed. “As your friend,” he echoes.

The long, long pause that follows is finally ended by Sherlock offering him a heart-felt “ _Please_ ” because he doesn’t know what else to do.

John cocks his head to one side, seemingly considering. “All right,” he says, at last.

The relief is immense, and the hope in Sherlock’s chest takes painful flight again, all sharp-edged wings threatening damage to tender, already injured vital organs. He swallows, trying to subdue it, and nods. “Good. Good. In that case, we’d better order a taxi for eight-thirty.”

“Two taxis.”

“What? Why would we need two taxis?”

John presses his lips together and wrinkles his nose. “I said I’d help, Sherlock. But I’m not moving back in. I’ll see you in the morning.”

This is why hope is dangerous, Sherlock thinks, standing silent, as John retraces his steps across the room and leaves: when it’s disappointed, it hurts.

It hurts like hell.


	7. Crime and Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock and John set out to retrieve a valuable writing box and its mysterious contents, Sherlock discovers he's not the only one with issues ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please note that I have decided not to give any warnings**

**_February 9th_ **

 

The concourse at Paddington is maliciously busy for a Wednesday morning. Everywhere Sherlock looks there are bodies, wider than they ought to be in their winter coats, and far too many of them far too tall - taller than five foot seven, at any rate: they’re obscuring his view. Ditto the wretched free-standing information boards. How will he ever spot John in this mess of humanity, with all these obstacles in his line of sight? He wishes now that he’d thought to specify a more precise meeting place when replying to John’s text - even as a little ripple of warmth goes through him as he recalls its content.

Text: _Don’t forget your toothbrush. Or clean pants and socks. Yes, I do think you’re an idiot. J_

If John has slipped back into his care-taking role, surely that’s a good sign? (It _is_ , isn’t it? A prelude to him moving back in, regardless of what he said yesterday?) Sherlock wishes he knew. Wishes his deductive skills weren’t quite so patchy when it comes to John Watson.

Someone walks past carrying a large, red, paper cup emblazoned with Costa logo (the lettering is visible on either side of a thumb clad in fine wool - cashmere? no, something slightly coarser - merino) and the aroma of coffee fills Sherlock with longing. (Didn’t make any. John usually does - _did_ that.) Fortunately, the coffee-craving is easily remedied: there’s a café right next to the ticket office. However, as Sherlock turns to go back the way he’s just come, a shaft of sunlight slanting in from one of the side windows in the station canopy illuminates a familiar figure, walking towards him ( _John_ ) and Sherlock is overwhelmed with craving of an entirely different kind.

Despite yesterday, John’s smile of greeting is as warm as ever and his gait, as he approaches, every bit as buoyant and purposeful. Sherlock can’t help taking a little pride in the way John strides out now, instead of limping: at least some of the improvement is his doing. (If only John were still broken in some way. _Needy_. But he isn’t. He’s perfect - self-reliant and self-contained.)

“Here,” John says, thrusting one of the paper cups Sherlock has only just noticed he’s carrying into Sherlock’s hand. “I got you a coffee.”

Sherlock’s fingers curl around it gratefully. Despite his gloves, they were cold. Now, in John’s presence, his whole body feels warm - deliciously so.

John brings his own cup to his lips and unthinkingly sucks in a mouthful of coffee through the hole in the plastic lid. The heat makes him wince and blink furiously in pain for a moment, then he rolls his eyes at his own foolishness, and says, lisping slightly, “I’d have been here earlier, but the tube was a nightmare again.”

(He’s burnt his tongue. His wonderful, breath-stealing tongue.)

Sherlock swallows. “Well, you’re here now,” he says, trying not to sound too delighted about it and trying to keep the evidence in front of him in perspective. (Yes, John is here - but he loves mystery and adventure.) (It’s true that he thought to buy coffee but it’s a cold morning and he was obviously desperately in need of some himself - the proof of that lies in his having started drinking it too soon.) (And the reminder about clean underwear was probably just because he was thinking through his own packing, not …)

“Tickets?” John prompts, after a silence that goes on a fraction too long.

“What? Oh. Yes, _tickets_.” Sherlock takes them from his pocket with a flourish and nods towards the electronic departures board. “Platform four. First class carriages are situated towards the middle of the train,” he adds, mimicking the message that’s been playing over the tannoy for the past five minutes.

John raises an eyebrow. “First class? Can you afford first class?”

Sherlock gives him a conspiratorial smile. “Mycroft can. Come on - this way.”

The implication that they’re getting away with something, cocking a snoop at Mycroft’s authority, has the desired effect because, grinning like a schoolboy, John allows himself to be steered towards the ticket barrier and onto the platform.

The train (First Great Western, Intercity 125, 2001 model) is filling briskly, a little huddle of people waiting to board at every door. Sherlock strides past them, John in tow. When they find the first class carriages, Sherlock stands aside to let John board first. Stepping in behind him gives him a pleasant sense of ownership and, as John waits for the straggle of people in front of him to take their seats, they’re pressed close enough together for Sherlock to catch the scent of his hair (no rose notes, no lavender but limonene, and camel grass, and Camellia sinensis.) The smell is familiar, very much so. (Medicinal. Medical. Clinical. White coats, white walls, harsh lighting, microscopes …) With a start, Sherlock realizes it’s the same shampoo Mike uses: Head&Shoulders Citrus. (Is that just a coincidence? Does it mean something? Is John not living with Sarah, after all?) As Sherlock’s heart starts to patter optimistically, he takes a deep breath to slow it. (There’s not enough data to come to a conclusion yet. Wait. Watch. Observe.) Even so, he feels happier than he has in days when he slides into the seat next to John. Happy enough to risk letting his thigh brush John’s as he settles himself in more comfortably. And very nearly ecstatic when John doesn’t move his own leg away.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Bristol Parkway must be the bleakest, most godforsaken railway station on Earth, Sherlock thinks bitterly, standing on its wind-battered east-bound platform with flakes of snow melting into the fabric of his coat, and his good mood of earlier totally gone. To be fair, his change in mood isn’t the station’s fault but John’s: during the course of the past eighty-five minutes he’s managed to chat up no less than _three_ people: the simpering half-wit across the aisle; the rugby-playing banker who sat opposite him for three stops (Reading to Swindon); and the rather plain, easily flattered, stewardess who offered John free biscuits to go with his coffee. Sherlock could kick himself: it was stupid to think that just because John seems to have moved in with Stamford, not Sarah, that he might come back. From this morning’s evidence, he’s obviously a sex addict. Faithless, flitting from partner to partner and always on the hunt for someone - something - new. Just like Father, apparently.

Something of Sherlock’s disgust must show on his face, he realizes, when John touches his arm and asks softly, “You all right?”

Sherlock jerks away from him. “Fine. _Fine_. Don’t be boring.”

John gives him a quizzical look, but before he can form a question to go with it, the rails in front of them start to shiver and sing. Sherlock turns his head to see the 11.10 to Cheltenham Spa coming into view. He checks his watch; it’s bang on time.

“Good to know _some_ things are predictable,” he mutters.

“Yeah, isn’t it?” John mutters back, for some inexplicable reason sounding every bit as irritated as Sherlock feels.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

By the time the train pulls into Cheltenham Spa station, it’s snowing in earnest.

And John isn’t speaking to Sherlock.

They head for the exit without exchanging a word, and get into one of the taxis waiting on the forecourt (a Renault Trafic. SL27dCi 115 Sport, six-gears. Diesel - by the sound of the engine). With its nine seats, the vehicle far bigger than they need, and as they belt themselves into separate seats, its size only serves to emphasize the frosty atmosphere between them.

“Chipping Bourton,” Sherlock tells the driver, and they pull away, windscreen wipers battling ever thicker snowflakes and the car radio playing some easy listening station far too quietly to drown out the silence.

It’s a long journey, made longer by the way John is avoiding eye contact by staring out of the window. Every now and then, Sherlock catches sight of his reflection in the glass, and sees brows lowered in anger, and a mouth set in a hard, offended line.

After twenty minutes, Sherlock cracks. “Oh, for goodness sake!” he hisses. “Stop sulking.”

John rounds on him instantly, and for a moment Sherlock gets a glimpse of the soldier he once was, the man who probably killed people, as well as healing them. “Sulking?” John growls back. “I thought you didn’t want me - let me see, how did you put it? - ‘prattling on inanely’.”

Those _were_ Sherlock’s exact words, it’s true, and taken out of context, they do sound fairly damning. However, _in_ context - with John leaning across the table to discuss the latest episode of some moronic soap opera with those two young mothers, bouncing babies on their knees - they were perfectly reasonable. Sherlock’s head was beginning to spin with the in-and-outs of which character was sleeping with which, and when he was forced to actually listen to the drivel, the gaping plot-holes and wilful disregard for standard human psychology made him want to scream.

“You made me look an idiot,” John accuses.

Sherlock snorts. “No, John - your passionate interest in the coming and goings of supposedly everyday Australians did that.”

“I should think-” John grinds out between clenched teeth, but Sherlock cuts neatly him off.

“Yes, you really should. If it’s not too much of a strain for you.”

John’s eyes widen and he inhales noisily, as if about to charge into battle. Instead, he folds his arms, snarls “Piss off”, and returns to staring out of the window.

The rest of the journey passes in cold, lonely silence.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Chipping Bourton must be one of the most photogenic towns in the whole of England, Sherlock thinks, when the taxi pulls off the ring-road to make slow progress through impossibly narrow streets, flanked on either side by ridiculously picturesque houses and tastefully converted shops (black window frames, usually garish company logos forced into discreet shades of brown, green and cream). Most of the buildings are Georgian, a few Tudor, and still others more modern, but all of them are built of golden Cotswold stone, and they glow warmly against the whiteness of the snow that’s accumulating on the pavements and window sills.

“Here you are,” the taxi driver says. (Long vowels, approximant r’s. A local man.) “The King’s Head. Great place - you’ll be well-looked after in there. You staying-?”

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock says. He’s already slid the door open, and is stepping out onto the pavement, and looking around.

“Hang on - that’s thirty-two quid,” he vaguely registers the driver protesting, but he’s more interested in letting the atmosphere of the place wash over him. (Quiet, ordered, _respectable_. People who’ve known their place for centuries. Small town sensibilities. Country values. Conservative.)

And then John is standing next to him, speaking at long last - even if it’s only to grumble, “That’s forty quid you owe me.”

“Forty?” Sherlock queries. “He said thirty-two.”

John shrugs. “What can I say? You’re a generous tipper.”

It’s a punishment of sorts, Sherlock knows, so he probably shouldn’t find it amusing, but he does. It’s delightful that John should have felt the need for some petty vengeance - especially when it proves that John is still eager for his good opinion.

They cross a neat little courtyard edged with flower boxes towards Reception, the smell of garlic, onions and roasting meat growing stronger and more complex with each step.

John smacks his lips. “We’ve got time to eat, right?”

They probably don’t, Sherlock thinks, not if John orders something complicated, not if they want to be at Sir William’s by two-thirty, but with John looking so boyishly hopeful, Sherlock finds it impossible to deny him.

“ _One_ course,” he says firmly. “ _After_ we’ve checked in.”

John rubs his hands together and grins. “Fine by me.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

A middle-aged woman with alarmingly red hair and thin, arched eyebrows pencilled in emphatically over a pair of shrewd, green eyes checks them in, then calls over the young woman, who’s been loitering on the periphery of Sherlock’s vision ever since they first walked in.

“Take these gentlemen up, Janey,” the woman behind the desk orders. “Party from London. Upstairs, at the back.”

Janey nods. Up close, the resemblance between the two women is striking. The same nose, same mouth, same fair skin. (Mother and daughter.) (Though they’re not close.) Sherlock and John follow her upstairs, and along a low-ceilinged, floral-carpeted corridor.

“You’re in here,” Janey announces. She pushes at a pale oak door that's standing ajar and it swings fully open to reveal a bright, airy room, with a second door opening out onto a small patio. Decorated in the palest, pastel shades, the room is a little feminine for Sherlock’s taste, but he could live with that - they’re only here for one night, after all: it’s the king-size bed with its mountain of fluffy pillows and elegant brass headboard that makes his stomach drop.

Even without looking at him, he can sense John is shooting him a curious, sideways glance.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, doing his best to ignore the way his stomach has now decided to start fluttering. “The bastard.”

Worry lines appear on Janey’s forehead. “Something the matter?” she asks, biting her lip and sounding genuinely anxious. “Don’t you like it? Mr Holmes asked for this one specially. It’s the best one we got.”

“No, no,” John hurries to assure her. “It’s just that … well, we need _two_ bedrooms, not one.” He raises his eyebrows and gives her that puppy-dog smile that never fails to melt Sherlock’s firmest resolve. “D’you think you could, uh, do a swap for us?”

Janey’s distress worsens. “I would,” she says earnestly, “if I could. But we haven’t got no vacant rooms to swap it for. Got a big party of Japanese tourists in - for the TV locations tour. We haven’t got no vacant rooms to exchange this’un for.”

Sherlock is on the point of telling her that if that’s the case, they’ll take their chances at another hotel, when John gives a little laugh and says, “Well, never mind. We’ll have to make the most of it, won’t we?” He looks around the room again, and his eyes fall on the Queen Anne-style chair with velvet upholstery in the corner. “I’ll be perfectly happy sleeping there,” he says, pointing. “Now, who do we have to see about ordering lunch?”

* * * * * * * *

After a hastily consumed roast beef with horseradish sandwich for John, and a strong, sweet coffee for Sherlock, they’re on the road again, in another taxi, and heading towards Nether Bourton and Sir William. The driver seemed quite impressed by their destination, referring deferentially to their client as ‘the Magistrate’ and regaling them with tales of Sir William’s contributions to the community via the bench, the Rotary Club and the local church.

“The man sounds like a saint,” Sherlock remarked, wryly.

“You’re not wrong there,” the driver agrees. “Him _and_ his daughter. Chipping Bourton’s lucky to have the both of ‘em.”

Sherlock wonders how the driver would react were he to learn that his paragon of virtue is currently afraid of blackmail, but decides he’d probably laugh and dismiss the revelation as nonsense. Sherlock knows better: it’s always the last person you suspect who’s concealing the really dark secrets. However, the driver’s unquestioning admiration for Sir William at least means he’s happy to battle the winter weather, and is willing to wait outside The Laurels until Sherlock and John are ready to return to town.

But as they crunch their way up the snow-coated path to Sir William’s front door, Sherlock has to admit he’s not fully focused on the case. The knowledge that he’s going to be spending the whole of tonight in the same bedroom as John keeps resurfacing (Why was John so quick to accept the room? There are other hotels in town, other bed and breakfast places), making his heart beat faster and his skin tingle with an emotion that’s half-dread and half-anticipation.

Sherlock’s ponderings are abruptly cut off when Sir William’s front door opens and a handsome, if solid, woman in a pleated, woollen skirt and twin-set greets them with a booming, “Mr Holmes? Doctor Watson? Do, please, come in.”

Sherlock finds his hand grasped in a firm handshake, and then he’s inside the house, in a wide hallway, the snow that’s collected on his shoes melting into a thick, eau-de-nil carpet.

“Pamela Sanger,” the woman announces. “Sir William’s daughter. Awfully good of you to make the journey in this wretched weather. I’m afraid Daddy’s had to take an international call, but he’s expecting you. Shouldn’t be too long. Let me take your coats. Tea? Coffee? Through here.”

Sir William’s drawing room is as dark and traditional as Sherlock and John’s room at The King’s Head is bright and airy (stop thinking about the room! concentrate!) and, with its crimson drapes and half-timbered walls, it reminds Sherlock of Mycroft’s office, although the chairs are less grand and infinitely more comfortable. John sinks so deeply into the one he’s offered, as the supple leather cushions shift to accommodate him, that his feet leave the ground and he has to wriggle forward to adopt a more formal pose. Sherlock tries not to stare at the way his hips move.

Meanwhile Pamela Sanger is busily stuffing papers (A4 envelopes, pages from newspapers and a thin manilla file) into a battered briefcase. “Daddy tries not to show it," she confides, fastening the buckles, “but he’s frightfully upset about the theft. We were fortunate, of course - we have so many more valuable things they could have taken - but that writing box is of great sentimental value to him. He’s had it since before I was born. Since he married Mummy, in fact - God rest her.”

“I understand there was something inside the box,” Sherlock says. “Something that your father is equally keen to have back?”

Sanger’s fair complexion flushes (She’s blushing. Interesting.) and her eyes dart about as if she’s wary of being overheard. “He hasn’t said as much,” she says, in a low tone, “but I think it’s a photograph of Mummy.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “A photograph of your mother?” (That’s hardly material for blackmail. What’s going on here? Is this another of Mycroft’s little games?)

Sanger laughs, but it’s a nervous laugh - too loud for mirth, too staccato - and she holds her hands up in surrender. “All right, Mr Holmes,” she says. “Look, I don’t know, but I’m guessing that the picture might be considered … you know.” And she laughs again, just as nervously.

“No,” Sherlock says, “I don’t. You’ll have to be explicit.”

Sanger claps her hands. “Yes! Explicit! Exactly the word I was looking for. I’m guessing the picture is _explicit_. I do hope you’re not shocked. I think it’s rather charming. They were married for forty-nine years, and were utterly devoted to each other. Like teenagers in love sometimes … though they were never indiscreet. Just little looks, little touches.”

An explicit photograph - even one of one’s own spouse - could well be thought scandalous in a town like Chipping Bourton, Sherlock will concede. “Where did your father keep this box?” he asks, rising from his seat. John immediately follows suit, and Sanger is just making a move to lead them to another room when a tall man - slender, though not thin - appears in the doorway.

“Oh, Daddy! Good, you’re done. This is Mr Holmes, Daddy, and this is Doctor Watson.”

At seventy plus, Sir William is handsome for his years, with a headful of neatly cut white hair and a prominent, well-shaped nose, giving him a patrician air. His bearing is patrician too - that of a man used to being in command.

“Pleased to meet you,” Sir William says, shaking hands, “Thank you for coming.” His voice is deep and his diction precise, with a slightly nasal quality which enhances the impression he gives of effortless superiority. Sherlock notices John stand taller, straighter.

“You daughter was just about to show us to the scene of the crime,” Sherlock says, done with the social niceties and impatient to get on with the case.

“You can do that now, Daddy, can’t you? I really ought to be going.” She offers Sherlock an apologetic grimace and brandishes her brief-case. “Meeting. Terrible bore, but needs must!” She pushes up on tiptoes to plant a kiss on her father’s immaculately shaved cheek. “Should be home by nine-thirty, ten at the latest. Lovely to meet you both. TTFN!”

Sherlock watches Sir William watch her go. (There’s genuine affection in his eyes, and pride, although the angle of his head - tipped marginally to one side - and his pursed lips express a little exasperation too.)

“She shouldn’t be going out in this weather,” Sir William murmurs. “But she won’t be told. Seems to think her charities will collapse without her. And the thing is, she’s probably right!” He sighs, then turns to Sherlock. “My study. It’s across the hall.”

He leads the way, and Sherlock and John follow him into another oak-panelled room, this time furnished with bookcases, a writing desk and several filing cabinets. It smells faintly of tobacco.

“Has the room been touched at all?” Sherlock asks, scanning it for signs of a break-in.

“No,” Sir William replies. “I locked the door as soon as I discovered the box was missing, and it’s been locked ever since. I opened it this morning, in preparation for your arrival.”

“Good.” Sherlock strides into the room, noting the layout (desk in the centre of the room, facing the windows, no obstacles between it and the door), the fine layer of dust on the bookcase shelves (Sir William’s cleaners have not been here for five days, possibly six), the closed sash window (the catches are secured) and the carpet (no sign of dirt or footprints). Closer inspection of the windows shows no damage to the paintwork, nor fingerprints on the glass. Sherlock looks out into the garden, and finds rose beds right up against the house, the plants pruned back hard and their thorns showing black and jagged against the snow. He takes out his phone and pulls up the Met Office site. (Local weather for the past week has been wet. Rain every day.) (Even if the windows had been left open, anyone climbing in through them would have had wet, muddy shoes. There would be footprints.)

Sherlock approaches the desk, and takes out his lens. (Scuffs, scratches, indentations in the build-up of polish.) Returning the lens to his pocket, he walks out into the hallway. “Show me the other ground floor rooms.”

Sir William leads the way to the dining room, a second drawing room, then the kitchen, and a couple of storerooms. Like Sir William’s study, the dining room and drawing room have flowerbeds right outside the windows, and the storeroom windows are barred. The kitchen window is large enough to admit a person, but the sill is lined with herbs being grown in pots. (They would have been broken or knocked over.)

Sherlock nods to himself, sure of one thing now at least.

“Have you found something?” Sir William asks immediately.

“Only that that the thief entered your study through the hallway.”

“Impossible!” Sir William cries. “We keep the front door locked, and besides, my daughter was in the sitting room all afternoon.”

“I’ve just eliminated the impossible, Sir William,” Sherlock sniffs. “Which means entry through the front door is the only possibility. Do try to keep up. Do you have a picture of the box? I need to know more about it - apart from the fact it’s made of something heavy and measures fourteen by ten and a half inches and is seven to eight inches deep. With metal corners - probably brass.”

Sir William gapes in amazement and John murmurs, “How …?” before trailing off with a shake of his head.

“Shape and size?” Sherlock ask. “Obvious. There are marks on the desk where, over time, the weight of the box itself on the metal has depressed the surface. Brass? Because a box of that size and weight wouldn’t have been reinforced with a cheap metal, but precious metal would have been too expensive - unless the box were incredibly valuable in itself. Which seems unlikely, since it was left on a desk, in full view of anyone entering the house, or looking in through the window.”

Sir William nods. “No - you’re right, Mr Holmes - the box isn’t worth a great deal. Four, five thousand at most.” Sherlock hears John inhale sharply. “Coromandel - and brass, as you said. Elegant in its way, but heavy and unwieldy. I can’t imagine anyone wanting a writing box like it for its own sake in this day and age. Computers and telephones are so much speedier than hand-written letters.”

“Not something you bought for yourself, I take it?” Sherlock asks.

“No. It was a gift. From a friend. It has sentimental value.”

“And the photograph inside it?”

A muscle in Sir William’s cheek tightens, pulling at the corner of his mouth. (He’s fighting some strong emotion). “It also has sentimental value.”

It’s time to push him, Sherlock decides. Now, whilst his emotions aren’t fully reined in. “My brother implied it might also have cash value - in the wrong hands. Was he right? You think that’s why the box was stolen?”

Sir William gives a sharp nod. “I am well-known locally, Mr Holmes,” he says, tightly. “It could … destroy my standing. I was a fool. I should have burnt it long ago.”

“Not an easy thing to do,” John murmurs sympathetically. “Not when it comes to matters of the heart.”

Sir William’s head snaps around at this and he stares at John, wide-eyed. (He’s too silent to have taken offence. This is surprise, fear.)

Realizing the disturbing impact his words have had, John hurries to reassure. “I meant - don’t worry, Sir William. This man here - Sherlock - he’s amazing. Brilliant. He’ll find your box for you.”

“John…”

“Seriously brilliant,” John goes on, his own discomfort making him babble. “You and me, we don’t see any clues, but Sherlock will have seen hundreds of them. It’s what he does.”

(Rule one: never promise more than you can deliver.) “ _John_ ,” Sherlock says again, more firmly, “whilst I’m flattered by your faith in me, I have to point out that it’s entirely possible we won’t recover the box without further clues. Sir William, will your daughter be in tomorrow?”

“She will, and she’ll tell you exactly what I’ve just told you: she didn’t see anyone enter the house.”

“Then I shall have to ask her a different question,” Sherlock says. “I’ll be here at ten thirty.”

“All right, Mr Holmes,” Sir William nods. “But I must to ask you to tread carefully with her. She was devoted to her mother and I don’t want her upset.”

A little thrill goes up Sherlock’s spine and he fixes Sir William with a sharp look. “Why would she be upset?”

Sir William visibly squirms, and he sucks in his cheeks. “The photograph,” he says, after a long pause. “I know she thinks it’s one of her mother but …” He stops.

“It’s not,” Sherlock supplies. (So, Sir William’s another one who can’t keep it in his pants?)

Sir William takes a deep breath. “The writing box was a gift - just before I married - from an old ...friend. It came with the photograph. But after the wedding, we never saw each other again. I was a faithful husband, Mr Holmes. I made _vows_. Before God.”

Sherlock can feel John shooting him a look that’s all puppy eyes and anxious eyebrows (he’s begging for tact, kindness) but he ignores him. “An indiscreet photograph of a former lover,” he muses. “Yes, Sir William - you’re right. You were a fool. You _should_ have burnt it.”

“Sherlock!” John is appalled but Sir William acknowledges the truth of it.

“I’ll tell my daughter you’ll be here in the morning,” he says quietly. “And in the meantime, I’ll pray that she knows something that will be of use to you.”

“One last thing,” Sherlock says, pulling on his gloves as Sir William shows them out. “Is the box is locked?”

“I may be a fool, Mr Holmes,” Sir William says gruffly, “but I’m not an idiot.” He pats his breast pocket. “I keep the key on my person.”

Sherlock nods. “That’s something, at least.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

The taxi drops Sherlock and John off outside The King’s Head just as a dirty yellow van (a Mark 3 Ford Transit, with only one rear light working) pulls away, belching black smoke from its exhaust. Uneven, badly spaced lettering on its back doors announce it the property of Smith and Son Plumber and Heating Engineers.

“Mr Smith is obviously a man who believe in making a good impression,” John remarks dryly.

The King’s Head is in uproar when they enter. A crowd of guests has gathered around the reception desk, all talking at once - some of them in Japanese - and, behind the desk, the red-headed woman is trying to calm them down, her face flushed and some of her fringe sticking to her sweat-dampened forehead. (She could do with calming down herself).

Congratulating himself on having forgotten to hand in his room key on the way out and thus in no need of joining this particular fray, Sherlock turns towards the stairs. He and John are half-way up them when Janey appears at the top of the landing, silently weeping. John is at her side in a heartbeat, handing her his handkerchief, and doing his usual kind and caring act. (No, it’s not an act. It would be less annoying if it _were_.)

“There, there,” he soothes. “What’s the matter? Is there anything I can do?”

Janey sniffs and dabs at her streaming eyes. “No, no. You’ve been way too kind already, accepting that room. Don’t know what Mum would’ve said if you’d turned it down at the last minute, what with her having to turn people away earlier. Well, no - I do. She’da blamed me. She always does.”

“How would it have been your fault?” John asks gently.

“The décor,” Janey says. “Mum left me in charge of doing it cuz she was busy with our Brian. He was in court again. He’s always in court, but it was Gloucester this last time, so I had to stay here and manage the decorators. Had to choose everything myself. Three days of it. I thought the rooms looked pretty but Mum went mental. Said they looked old-fashioned and too frilly, and that I’d spent too much money, and now the heating boiler’s gone and she reckons she doesn’t have enough to pay for a new one. She says that’s my fault too.”

(That would explain The King’s Head’s choice of boiler repair man. Smith looks cheap, if nothing else.)

“She’s probably just stressed,” John says. “Give her a couple of hours and I’m sure she’ll be more reasonable.”

Janey doesn’t look convinced but, when John pats her arm, and smiles at her, she smiles back. “I’d better go an’ help her, I s’pose,” she says wearily and, with a final sniff into John’s handkerchief, she sets off down the stairs.

John watches her go with a wistful look in his eyes, and Sherlock is on the verge of adding Janey to John’s long list of sins when John says quietly, “Poor kid. I know just how she feels.”

“You do?” Sherlock asks. It comes out sharply, because - as if John’s fawning over teary-eyed twenty-year olds weren’t bad enough - the comment feels like an accusation in some way, a slight against Sherlock’s powers of deduction.

“Been there, done that,” John sighs. “Or something very like it.” Sherlock’s incomprehension must show on his face because John smiles sadly at him and offers a one word explanation: “Harry.”

( _Of course_. His sister. His alcoholic, attention-seeking sister. The sister who ruined his big day at university, and who ruined hundred of others too, no doubt. The sister who pushed John to the periphery of his own life.) The jealousy that’s been building in Sherlock all day subsides. (Mycroft was a nightmare as an older brother - cleverer, more academic, perceptive and interfering - but he never hogged the limelight.)

“Tea,” Sherlock says briskly, not knowing how else to express the sympathy that’s suddenly welling up inside him. “Come on - let’s get some tea.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

"Shouldn't have had that scone earlier," John says with a regretful sigh as he peruses The King's Head evening menu.

Sherlock couldn't agree more: the sight of John's top lip smeared with cream will probably haunt him for the rest of his life, and even now, the memory of it has him licking his own lip, and remembering, with painful clarity, the taste of John's mouth and the warm, wet texture of it.

"You've only got yourself to blame," Sherlock says tersely, rising from his seat. "I’m going to the bar."

"Oh, the waitress will bring us drinks," John says airily, still studying the menu.

"I’m going to the bar," Sherlock repeats. "Get me the trout."

Getting to the bar is a bit of a struggle, because the dining area of The King’s Head is full not only of hotel residents but also a good number of local people too (if you want local knowledge, you talk to local people), tucking into vast plates of food or waiting for tables. Sherlock and John didn’t have to wait - or, rather, _John_ didn’t because Janey insisted on repaying his earlier kindness by sitting them both at a table for two near the fire, ahead of what was apparently a queue. (There was scowling and discontented muttering.)

The bar is busy too. Sherlock casts a quick eye over the people in front of it. The smartly dressed men waiting patiently at the left-hand end are obviously some of the Japanese tourists, but at the other end, a couple of young women sit on bar stools, laughing and talking loudly enough for Sherlock to identify their accents as local. Better still, the table right next to them is occupied by a trio of grey-haired, ruddy-faced men with big, calloused hands gripping pints of cloudy cider. (Sixty-plus years old, outdoor workers, manual labourers. If anyone has local knowledge, it will be them.) Sherlock walks up to the bar and, positioning himself near the young women, he lifts a faux leather-bound menu from the counter and pretends to study it.

It’s not long before he senses one of the women (the blond one) looking him up and down. (The beauty of good tailoring is that it attracts attention.) He gives her a second, then meets her gaze.

“You’re not from round here,” she says. “Not dressed like that.”

“London,” he says, with a brief, apologetic smile. (People in the provinces resent London but the younger ones invariably wish they lived there. An apology always gets them on side.) “It’s not as pretty as here.” And he lets his gaze linger on her crossed legs just long enough for her to take it as a compliment.

The other woman swivels round on her stool too. “Down here on you own?”

Flicking a glance towards the fire, Sherlock finds that John is watching him closely - suspiciously, even - and a petty urge to get even flares up in him. (Time to give the doctor a taste of his own medicine.) Sherlock moves a little closer to the women on the bar stools. “Yes, all on my own,” he says, with a quick, poor-me pout. “It’s rather lonely.”

A look passes between the two women - a quick eyebrow flash, the suggestion of a smile that’s quickly suppressed, and slight but predatory narrowing of the eyes. (Perfect!)

“Poor you!” the first one exclaims. “Stuck in a dump like this on your own. You probably need cheering up. Me and Hayley was just going to have another. What’re you drinking?”

Sherlock feigns surprise. “I … vodka .. But let me. Please.”

Hayley grins. “All right, then. But don’t you go trying to get us drunk and take advantage of us. We knows what you city types is like.”

“As if I would,” Sherlock purrs, fixing her with a look (deep into her eyes, leaning forward slightly) that implies that, given a chance, he absolutely will. (Is John still watching? Is this annoying him?) “What can I tempt you with?”

Hayley’s friend giggles. “We’ll both have vodkas too,” she said. “Vodka and blacks.”

Sherlock orders the drinks. On handing them over, he finds himself forced to clink glasses with Hayley, but her friend insists on interlocking her arm with his, so that when they take a sip of their drinks, their faces are so close, their foreheads touch. (It’s unpleasant, but necessary.) And - he discovers on looking quickly towards the fire again - absolutely worth it for the look on John’s face.

“So, what d’you do up there in London, then?” Hayley asks.

“I’m an architect,” Sherlock tells her. “In fact, that’s what brings me here. I’ve been commissioned to do some work at The Laurels. Do you know it?”

“ ‘Course we know it!” the blonde one laughs. “Everybody round here knows it. It’s Sir William’s place. ”

“And do you know Sir William?” Sherlock asks. “I’ve heard he can be a difficult man.”

“Who told ‘e that?” one of the old men at the nearby table demands, his unruly eyebrows lowered in an outraged frown.

Sherlock hadn’t expected such staunch defence of so powerful a man as Sir William. (Interesting.) “It’s not true then?”

“No, it bain’t,” the old man says firmly, to much nodding and mumbled agreement from his fellows. “Man’s a good sort. Him _an’_ his daughter. You play fair with him, he’ll play fair with you. Can’t blame a man for losing his rag when folks try to take advantage, can you?”

“Take advantage?”

“His daughter,” one of the other men explains, shaking his head. “Kindest soul in the world, what with all her charities and stuff, but she ain’t no judge of character. Got conned out of thousands by a bloke with a hard-luck story, and then one of her single mothers ran off with the take from the Bring and Buy - remember that, George? All them ructions after? Like I said - can’t blame Sir William for being protective.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees with an absent nod, as he files away this new information. (Pamela Sanger’s charities include single mothers: it’s unlikely she’s judgemental when it comes to sex.) (She’s kind-hearted but easily deceived.) (Sir William is, indeed, well-known and a pillar of the local community.)

“Never mind Sir William,” the blonde one says slowly, looking up at Sherlock through her lashes, and walking her fingers slowly across to the bar to where his hand rests. She touches it lightly with her forefinger. “We wants to know about you.”

“Maybe another time,” a brisk voice cuts in. ( _John_.) “Sherlock, your dinner’s here.”

His timing is perfect: he arrived just in time to hear the blonde voice her obvious interest and the visual must have had some impact too because John is practically smouldering with anger now. (Is this jealousy? Possessiveness?) Sherlock’s heart skips a beat at the thought it might be, and when John turns and marches away - stiff-backed, arms swinging - Sherlock follows him happily, doing his best not to grin.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

“Something wrong, John?” Sherlock asks innocently, as John stabs and tears as his meat instead of cutting it.

“Wrong?” John mutters. “What could possibly be wrong?” He drains his glass wine, refills it, and takes two more big gulps. (He’s drinking too fast. Because he’s jealous. But he doesn’t want to be, so he’s drinking to blot it out, to numb his feelings.) It would be easy to put him out of his misery, Sherlock thinks, sipping at his own drink, but knowing that John is suffering the kind of pain he doesn’t think twice about putting _him_ through is too delicious an experience not to be savoured (besides, it nice to be the one with the power for a change), and Sherlock happily allows the rest of the meal to pass in angry silence.

John is still giving Sherlock the silent treatment when they get back to their room, and the hotel’s central heating failure just adds to the atmosphere of chilliness. Pondering his next move and how best to press home his advantage, Sherlock retreats to the en suite bathroom to change into his pyjamas. John nips in quickly afterwards for what sounds like some fairly vicious tooth-brushing. Listening to the sound of furious spitting and of taps being turned harshly on and off, Sherlock begins to relent. John has suffered enough. He might even be on the point of seeing the error of his own, relentlessly charming ways.

Two minutes later, John emerges, face still damp around the edges from washing, a little bubble of soap clinging to the stubble in front of his ear.

Sherlock walks over to him. “Are you all right?” he asks, in his most convincingly solicitous tones. “You seem upset.”

“Leave it,” John growls, raising both hands, as if to fend Sherlock off. “Leave it, all right? Just get in the bed and go to sleep.”

“Why don’t you have the bed?” Sherlock offers. “Go on, take it. A good night’s sleep will make you feel better.”

The little depression below John’s bottom lip deepens, and the muscles in his cheeks tighten. “I don’t want the sodding bed.”

“You’re angry with me.”

“Brilliant,” John snarls, and tries to push past to reach the chair.

Sherlock grabs his arm. “Why? What’s the matter?”

“You. You’re the matter,” John says, pulling free.

Yet again, Sherlock has to fight back a grin. Mycroft was right, Lestrade was right, _Mrs Hudson_ was right: John Watson really does adore him, after all. “What about me?” he presses, masking his sense of triumph with a show of concern. “What did I do? Come on, John - you’re not normally so cryptic. Usually, you can’t wait to tell me when I’m not being boringly nice.”

“Work it out,” John snaps.

“All right. If you insist, we’ll look at the evidence.” Sherlock nods, starting to pace in his best imitation of himself working on a puzzling case. “You were in a tolerably good humour until the bar this evening. No, wait! You were fine when we first arrived. It must be something I did after that.” Sherlock pauses for effect - and John looks suitably affected. Even angrier than he was before. “Could it have been my information-gathering technique? Talking to people in bars? No, surely not - you spent most of this morning being utterly charming with complete strangers, as well as a portion of this afternoon offering handkerchiefs and sympathy to distraught young women. Why did you do that? Not - according to you - because it meant anything, but because it’s what you do. What _I_ do is gather information. And for some reason, that annoyed you-”

“You know what?” John interrupts. “I _will_ have the bed, after all. You can have the chair.”

“Of course, John,” Sherlock says, standing aside. “Anything you say, John.”

“What if I say ‘Stop being a dick’?”

“I shall endeavour to comply.”

“Then I’m saying it,” John says. “Stop being a dick.” He stomps over to the bed and all but throws himself into it, pulling the duvet up to his ears, as he turns his back on Sherlock.

Sherlock takes the chair gleefully - but it’s not long before he realizes it was a stupid move. The chair is large and comfortable enough, but the blankets are too short to reach all the way from his shoulders to his feet, and the room is getting colder by the second. He tries another position, curling up into a ball, but his thighs are too long to maintain the position for any length of time, and every time he straightens out, he feet are freezing again.

“Do you have to keep doing that?” John demands, after a while.

“Doing what?” Sherlock asks, shifting again, feeling colder.

“Making all that noise. Moving around.”

Sherlock does his best to stay still. And fails. (It’s bloody cold, and his teeth are starting to chatter.)

“You’re still moving around,” John points out when Sherlock hits on the idea of wrapping one of the blankets around his body and the other around his legs. “Are you cold or something?”

“No,” Sherlock lies. “I’m fine. Perfectly f-fine.”

But the new arrangement of blankets is totally unsatisfactory - too thin, and too tight. With a sigh, Sherlock goes back to Plan A, and is just settling down for the umpteenth time when at last John sighs, “Oh bloody hell, Sherlock - just stop. Get in the bed.”

Sherlock hesitates. (The bed would be warmer, more comfortable but-) “ _You’re_ in the bed.”

“Don’t worry,” John mutters, keeping his back turned as Sherlock continues to hesitate. “Your virtue is safe with me. I’m more likely to throttle you than anything else right now.”

It may not be the most gracious invitation to share a bed that’s ever been issued, but Sherlock is too cold to refuse it. He disentangles himself from the knot of blankets he’s tied himself into and slips into the bed beside John.

Which he’s pretty sure means he’s not going to sleep _at all_.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

**February 10th**

 

But Sherlock _does_ sleep - deeply and well - and when he awakes the next morning, it’s to the unexpectedly welcome sensation of another back - _John’s_ back - pressed against his own, and to the sound of John’s slow, steady breathing. Sherlock can’t remember ever feeling so peaceful, and as he lies, trying to analyse and catalogue this wholly unprecedented experience, he thinks perhaps it would be worth the rest of it - the discomfort, the indignity and the terrifying prospect of losing control - of allowing _John_ to take control - to have this, afterwards.

But then John stirs and Sherlock’s whole system floods with adrenalin. What if John rolls over? What if John wants to touch, not unconsciously like this, but knowingly? What if there’s nuzzling? What if there are kisses? What if John’s hand slips around his waist, and under the waistband of his pyjamas. What if it slides all the way down his abdomen? What if … what if John starts wanking him off?

Sherlock realizes he’s stopped breathing, and that his heart is thumping so violently, John must surely be able to feel it. Worse still, he’s getting hard.

He jumps out of bed, snatches up his clothes and seeks refuge in the shower. The water is icy (of course! the heating’s off) but it’s just what Sherlock needs, and when he re-enters the bedroom, it’s with a cold sense of purpose and his self-control fully restored.

John is only just coming round, stretching and rubbing at his eyes.

“Good morning,” Sherlock says briskly, averting his gaze, because John is at his most appealing when battling sleepiness. (Or shoved up against a wall.) (Oh god, where did _that_ thought come from?) (The self-control clearly needs more work.) Sherlock hastily buttons up his jacket, and bundles yesterday’s laundry into his bag. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

“Mmm,” John agrees. “Order for me, will you? I think I fancy a full English today.”

The way he says it, in that sleep-thickened mumble, it sounds like a euphemism, and Sherlock has to hurry from the room before he starts imagining too vividly what it might be a euphemism for.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

**_Later, that morning_ **

 

Despite keeping one eye on the clock (she has a charity meeting with church officials at noon), Pamela Sanger is doing her best to be helpful and, so far, has answered every question Sherlock has put to her honestly and fully. She’s not dissembling, and she’s not trying to hide anything. Sherlock thinks she must be the most honest person he’s ever met. (Which is making the interview doubly frustrating: there’s no useful information, and no opportunity for showing off in front of John.)

Sir William, on the other hand, takes far too long before answering any question, all the while watching his daughter fearfully, as if afraid that at any moment, he’ll give something away. (The man is definitely hiding something - something beyond a mere pre-marital affair.)

“And you’re sure you saw no-one enter the house?” Sherlock asks Pamela Sanger for the third time. “To the best of your knowledge, there was no-one else here beside yourself and your father?”

“Well, apart from Joe, of course,” she answers, then laughs, as if this information is wholly irrelevant.

“Joe?” Sherlock and Sir William echo in unison.

“You know, Daddy,” Pamela Sanger urges he father. “ _Joe_. From Dogs’ Best Friends.”

“One of my daughter’s charities,” Sir William explains, when Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Joe helps her. I’ve never met the man myself …”

“Don’t look like that, Daddy!” Pamela Sanger scolds. “He’s a lovely man, and certainly not a thief! He doesn’t even claim expenses.” She smiles at Sherlock. “He lives in London, you see. Manages the east of England section. I manage the west. Every now and then, we have to meet up, and - darling man that he is - he insists on travelling here, to save me having to find my way around the M25. And he won’t take so much as a penny towards petrol. He loves dogs, you see. Has a lovely little bichon frise - the cutest thing ever - called Pandora.” She stops and laughs again. “He says it’s too big a name for such a small dog, but all his dogs have been called Pandora - for years and years. From before I was even born, he says.”

Sherlock feels all his senses snap into sharp focus. (Pandora. Pandora’s box. Pandora’s _box_.) “His address,” he says, getting to his feet. “Give me his address.”

“Sherlock?” John has set his teacup aside and is rising too, even though both his expression and tone of voice show he has no idea why they're suddenly on the move.

Pamela Sanger looks baffled as well (and her father caught between confusion and trepidation). “You don’t think ..?” she asks. The carriage clock on the mantel strikes quarter to twelve, and the realization that she’s running late only adds to her obvious discomfort. “Oh dear, I really must go. Reverend Ford will be waiting, and he has hospital visiting this afternoon.” She hunts around in her capacious handbag for a minute, then shakes her head apologetically. “Terribly sorry - can’t seem to find my address book … could I call you? Later?”

Sherlock is on the point of insisting she find her address book _now_ when John assures her that that will be fine. He scribbles something onto a scrap of paper and hands it to her. “Sherlock’s mobile.”

Pamela Sanger tucks in carefully into her purse, and promises faithfully to phone as soon as she can. “But Joe didn’t steal anything,” she adds, gathering up her bag and briefcase. “He simply wouldn’t.”

And with that, she bustles out into the hallway. A moment later, the front door is banging shut, and a car is heard driving slowly away.

Sir William crosses to the window and gazes out onto his snow-covered formal garden of box hedges and pruned rose bushes. “You think this ‘Joe’ is the thief?” he asks.

“The only people who entered the house on the day the box went missing came in through the front door,” Sherlock replies. “And those people were yourself, your daughter and Joe.”

Sir William’s jaw clenches. “This is bad. Worse even than I feared.”

“I’d advise telling your daughter about the photograph now,” Sherlock tells him. “Before Joe has the chance.”

Sir William turns pale. “I can’t, Mr Holmes. I can’t.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

With the mysterious Joe living in London, the rational approach is to return there. Sherlock and John collect their belongings from The King’s Head and take a taxi to the station. However, the cancellation of the 14.31 to Bristol Parkway - thanks to a fresh fall of the ‘wrong kind of snow’ - and a points failure at Cholsey conspire to turn what should have been a journey of just over two hours into one that takes nearly six.

It begins with Sherlock and John having to spend almost an hour in the cramped coffee shop at Cheltenham Spa station, perched on stools and staring at a blank wall whilst being jostled by the hoards of other would-be passengers, as they mill about, consuming foodstuffs they don’t really want, and hoping for a train. Even so, it’s not the worse hour Sherlock has ever spent - because, despite his protestations, John still cares. Revelling in this knowledge, Sherlock is especially charming to him, buying him biscuits as well as coffee and praising up even his most pedestrian observations about the case. He even manages to make John laugh on two separate occasions, and each time it feels as if winter has melted away leaving brilliant springtime in its wake.

The first leg of the journey - when it eventually gets under way - is uneventful, but during the second, their carriage is suddenly filled with the smoky aroma of braking fluid as the train squeals to an unscheduled halt at Cholsey, where a weary voice over the intercom announces that there’s a points failure half a mile down the track and that all passengers are requested to disembark from the train and make their way to the station forecourt where a replacement bus service to Paddington awaits them.

The bus is packed and hot, and its progress along the M40 absurdly slow. Somewhere on the A40 John’s head starts to nod, and by the time they hit Westway, he’s fast asleep, his head lolling on Sherlock’s shoulder. The unaccustomed, trusting weight of it does curious things to Sherlock’s chest, filling him with the desire to wrap an arm around John so that he can sleep more comfortably. But he doesn’t, and instead spends the rest of the journey alert for any sudden turn that might throw him the other way, into the window, and poised to save him from such a painful awakening.

It’s eight-thirty by the time the bus finally pulls up outside of Paddington Station. John startles awake. “Must’ve fallen asleep,” he mutters, rubbing at the corners of his mouth with the side of a forefinger, as if checking for drool. “Sorry.”

Sherlock waves the apology away with a hand. “You were tired. And now you’re probably hungry. Dinner? There’s a decent Italian on Sheldon Square.”

John licks his lip (he’s tempted) but the lick turns into a bite and he shakes his head. (He’s thought of a reason why he shouldn’t accept). “Thanks, but I think I’ll be getting back. Mike … he’ll be wondering.” His mouth twists and he blinks rapidly. (An apology. Regret.) “D’you want me to come with you tomorrow? To see this Joe bloke?”

“Of course!” Sherlock replies. “I’d be lost-”

“Without your blogger,” John says, finishing Sherlock's sentence with a rueful smile. “Yeah. I know. Well, give me a call when Pamela Sanger contacts you.”

“You could come back to Baker Street.”

John stuffs his hands in his pockets. “No. I really couldn’t. I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”

Sherlock supposes it’ll have to be.

For now.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

**_February 11th_ **

 

When, at quarter to eleven, Sherlock’s phone finally rings, he grabs a pen and paper before answering it. (It’ll be Pamela Sanger with Joe’s address.)

But it isn’t. The plummy, superior voice on the other end is unmistakeably Mycroft’s. “Greetings, little brother. I heard you were back in Baker Street, so I thought I’d ring for a progress report.”

(Sir William must have friends in high places.) (Which probably means Mycroft will be checking in constantly until the case is solved.) Sherlock sighs. “No signs of a break-in. One suspect. I’m waiting for an address.”

Mycroft laughs. “No, no - I’m not talking about the _case_ , Sherlock; I’m asking about your relationship with John. Have things been resolved to your mutual satisfaction? Has the doctor been suitably chastised and forgiven his little misdemeanour? Does 221B now throb to the pulse of two hearts beating as one?”

It wouldn’t be funny, even if that were the case; since it isn’t, it’s bordering on painful. “Piss off, Mycroft.”

“Oh, dear lord!” Mycroft groans. “Don’t tell me you still haven’t acted. What do I have to do? Draw diagrams? I send the two of you away to one of the most charmingly romantic places in the country, book you into an excellent hotel - well, excellent for the provinces - and even go to the trouble of ensuring you have both a roaring fire and a king-size bed, and _nothing happened_? You’re not impaired in any way, are you? There’s medication for that, you know. If you are.”

Sherlock grits his teeth. “My only impairment is an interfering brother who, not content with running the country, seems to want to run my life as well.”

“I wouldn’t have to interfere if you weren’t so abominably slow on the uptake. John Watson wants you. Take him.”

Sherlock stomach flips over at the thought: it’s true, in part, he knows. It’s the rest of it he doesn’t understand: why John won’t come home; why they can’t just go back to how they were before. Before Sarah. “It’s not that simple,” he argues.

“Yes, Sherlock. It _is_. It’s what he wants.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“He’s in love with you, Sherlock. What might we deduce about him from that?”

“We might deduce it’s none of your business,” Sherlock replies acidly.

Mycroft goes on, regardless. “What would you say are your defining characteristics? Kindness? A sweet and gentle nature? Do people, on meeting you, think ‘There’s a charming, compassionate chap?’ I think not. You are brilliant, Sherlock - brilliant, talented and energetic - but you can also be cruel, domineering and insensitive. John Watson isn’t an idiot: he sees all of that. But neither is he a saint. His motivations are every bit as selfish as yours. He doesn’t put up with you in spite of what you are; he adores you because of it. With you, he gets adventure - and that little frisson of danger civilian life so sadly lacks. You can be quite terrifying at times, you know.”

“John’s not terrified of me. I don’t _want_ him to be terrified of me.”

“Why ever not? You’re terrified of him. Or, rather, by your feelings for him.”

“That’s your relationship advice, is it? Mutually assured destruction?”

“It worked well enough between the Americans and the Russians.”

Sherlock snorts. “I can see why you live alone.”

“As do you, at present. If you don’t want that situation to continue, I suggest you do something about John - and soon. The time has come, brother dearest, to stop playing nice.”

“Perhaps I _am_ nice.”

Mycroft laughs, a warm ripple of genuine amusement. “No, Sherlock. You’re really not. But, as I keep telling you, luckily for you, John doesn’t want nice. So play to your strengths and, for god’s sake - if I may use the vernacular - _man up_.”

 

* * * * * * * * 

 

Pamela Sanger eventually phones at half-past three. “Awfully sorry to have kept you,” she says. “Joe wasn’t answering his phone.”

“You _phoned_ him?” Sherlock asks, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Why would you phone him?”

“For his address, of course!” Sanger replies blithely. “Turns out I never wrote it down. Just his number.” She pauses. “It’s not a problem, is it?”

“Only insofar as you’ve warned him he’s under suspicion,” Sherlock says bitterly. “Nothing problematical about that.”

“Oh, golly!” Sanger exclaims. “Sorry. Didn’t think of that. Mind you, I still say he’s innocent. And I’m sure you’ll agree when you meet him. Salt of the earth, is old Joe.”

Sherlock takes down the address and calls John.

“We’re going to Epsom. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

“Ten? Listen, could we make that-”

( _Stop playing nice_.)

“Ten minutes, John.”

“Well, okay - but, I warn you, I’m not exactly smartly dressed.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

John wasn’t joking. When the taxi rounds the corner into Mike’s street, Sherlock almost doesn’t recognize the figure standing waiting on the kerb. John’s never been a flashy dresser, but he’s always had a certain quiet elegance. Today, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he looks like a tramp. He’s got white paint smeared on one side of his face, where he’s tried but failed to scrub it off, and little spatters of it in his hair. But the worst of it is, he’s wearing the most appalling clothes: a cheap nylon shirt, under a baggy chain-store jumper, and trousers so voluminously large on his small frame that they’ve had to be rolled up at the ankles and cinched in at the waist with a belt. Only his shoes are familiar.

He looks ridiculous.

“Ten days away from Baker Street and you appear to have reverted to the wild,” Sherlock comments, as John hops into the taxi and onto the seat beside him. “This living somewhere else isn’t doing much for your dress sense, is it?”

“This,” John says, nose in the air and indicating his atrocious apparel with a sweep of his hand, “is the outfit of a man not afraid to help a friend with a bit of DIY. A man not above manual labour. Like it?”

Sherlock grimaces. “It smells of Mike Stamford,” he says with a shudder. “Which is, I assure you, not a good thing.”

John raises an arm and sniffs under it, his face crumpling comically with distaste. “God, it does a bit, doesn’t it?”

“I’m surprised you can bear to share rooms with him.”

“I’ve got my reasons,” John says quietly, and looks away.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Unlike Chipping Bourton, Surrey is free of snow, and it’s still daylight when they arrive in Epsom, allowing Sherlock to get a feel for Joe’s neighbourhood. The road is a nice one: pleasant and tree-lined, with a mix of detached and semi-detached houses, some of them pre-war, some more modern. Neat gardens, wooden fences, trimmed hedges. The few cars Sherlock can see are well-kept, mostly less than five years old, and parked on hard standings or under carports. (A respectable, middle-class part of town. And not cheap, given the ease of access to central London.)

John gives a low whistle of surprise. “This it? Blimey. Not exactly the kind of place you’d expect a burglar to live, is it?”

Joe’s house is a chalet-style bungalow, brick-built with a slate roof, fronted by a wide, cottage-style garden full of overgrown plants that extends from the house down to the pavement. (Old-fashioned, slightly Bohemian.) To the side of the house, there’s a vegetable patch, obviously in constant use: there’s a rough square of soil in the middle of the rows of leeks where the ground has been recently turned over. (Joe’s gardening style is haphazard. Unplanned.)

“Money is no guarantee against criminality,” Sherlock says, opening the garden gate, “but you’re right: this isn’t the home of a simple thief.”

As they approach the house, a high-pitched yapping starts inside it, and the white, furry head of an enraged little dog appears, peering out of a bay window beside the front door.

“Pandora,” Sherlock murmurs. “Of box fame.”

“You think there’s a link?” John asks, right behind him.

Sherlock feels a pleased smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, no,” he says, enjoying himself now. “I’m sure of it. It’s why we’re here.” And he raps loudly on the door.

As the dog’s barks increase in volume, sounds of movement can be heard from inside the house - a door opening, footsteps descending a staircase. Through the glass panels in the door, Sherlock sees the outline of a man appear - slightly taller than John and considerably broader. There’s a clatter of keys, the sound of a chain being loosened, and then the door opens.

“Good afternoon,” Sherlock says, extending a hand to the grey-haired man (mid- to late-seventies, a hundred and seventy pounds) standing on the threshold. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Doctor John Watson. And I believe you must be Pamela Sanger’s friend, Joe.”

Behind his oversized tortoiseshell glasses, Joe’s alert dark eyes dart warily from Sherlock to John (where they linger for a while on John’s eccentric appearance) but he smiles broadly and grasps first Sherlock’s hand, then John’s, in a firm handshake. “That’s right. Joseph Hodder. Call me Joe. Would you like to come inside?”

(He’s very calm. Too calm.) (Wherever he’s hidden the box, he’s confident it won’t be found.) (Damn that idiot Sanger woman for phoning him.)

Accepting Hodder’s invitation, Sherlock steps into a hallway full of pot plants and bookshelves. On one of the walls, there’s a striking photograph of a sunset on a tropical beach, and on the wall opposite, an old map of Yugoslavia. One of the bookshelves has been taken over by a collection of pots: terracotta water jugs from North Africa; incised clay pots from Punjab; and fine, blue-glazed bowls from China. (Hodder has travelled widely, both for work and pleasure).

“Tea? Coffee?” Hodder offers, and Sherlock jumps at the chance. (The consumption of drinks of any kind makes asking to use the bathroom acceptable, normal. And using the bathroom provides the perfect excuse for snooping about …)

Probably on the strength of John’s less than pristine clothing, Hodder decides tea should be taken in the kitchen and, as the tea brews, John engages him in small talk about dogs and gardening and foreign travel, leaving Sherlock free to look about him. On the drainer by the sink, there’s a single rinsed plate, along with a mug, a knife and a fork. (Hodder lives alone. Has done for some time. The kitchen has none of the untidiness or neglect commonly seen in the homes of recent widowers.)

“Now, gentlemen,” Hodder says, putting milk and sugar out on his farmhouse style kitchen table, “what can I do for you?”

Sherlock duly outlines the case - the disappearance of the box, the date of the disappearance, the lack of evidence of a break-in and Hodder’s presence in the house at the time - and asks related questions but it’s only a ruse: he already knows Hodder has the box - he just needs time to drink his tea. As he finally drains his mug, he thanks Hodder profusely for his help and asks where the toilet is.

Leaving John to keep the man occupied, Sherlock hurries upstairs. There are two bedrooms, both admirably tidy. Divan beds (no drawers in the base, no space underneath them for storage. Neither of the chests of drawers is deep enough to be hide a writing box the size of Sir William’s in, and there’s no sign of the thing inside the wardrobes, or on top of them. The airing cupboard beside the bathroom seems promising at first but a rummage through it reveals nothing but drying laundry and towels.

Sherlock nips into the bathroom, pulls the toilet flush and lets one of the taps run whilst he investigates a walk-in closet and the laundry basket. (Nothing.) (The box must be downstairs.) (No! Wait! The garden! The vegetable patch!)

Sherlock runs down the stairs again and bursts into the kitchen. He flashes a smile at John. “Fancy doing some digging? If Mr Hodder will be so kind as to lend us a spade.”

“A s-spade?” Hodder stammers.

“Yes, a _spade_ ,” Sherlock confirms, already turning towards the hallway and the front door. “At a pinch, a trowel would do - though I hate to think what digging with one of those things might do to John’s back.”

“Hang on!” John says, following. “Who says I’m doing the digging?”

Hand on the doorknob, Sherlock looks him up and down. “Your clothes, John. And I agree with them. Come on - we haven’t got all day.”

Out in the garden, Sherlock leads the way to the patch of disturbed earth amongst the leeks plants. “I should have realized immediately,” he says, looking down at it. “I’m right, aren’t I, Mr Hodder?” he adds, as Hodder approaches, carrying a shovel. “This _is_ where you’ve buried it?”

Hodder presses his lips together and nods. “Best place I could think of, given the time-frame.”

“Bit stupid, wasn’t it?” John says, poking at the soil with the toe of his shoe. “Burying something worth four grand in mud.”

“Mr Hodder was never interested in its monetary value,” Sherlock explains. “He was never even interested in the box. Start digging there - a little to your left.”

“Then why-?”

“Love. Isn't that so Mr Hodder?" Sherlock asks, pitying the man. Very nearly pitying himself. "The most powerful motivator of all. It was you who gave Sir William the writing box in the first place, wasn’t it? _You_ are the lover in the photograph.”

Hodder stares at him, opens his mouth (he wants to deny it) and closes it again (he’s realized lying is pointless). “How did you know?”

Sherlock smiles. (This is always the best bit.) (Particularly when John is around to be impressed.) “Well, given that Pamela Sanger is a broad-minded, tolerant woman, it was unlikely Sir William would have kept secret from her an affair which took place before his marriage - unless there was something about it he thought even she might find shocking. But it was your dog’s name that was the real clue. Pandora. Pandora from Greek mythology. Moulded by Hephaestus from earth and given a box which, when opened, released every kind of evil into the world, leaving the box empty except for one thing: hope.”

Hodder has closed his eyes, and his mouth is quivering slightly.

“The photograph,” Sherlock continues. “You hoped it might dissuade him from marrying in the first place, and later, you always hoped it might bring him back to you.”

Hodder nods once, a tiny movement of his head. “Yes.”

John pauses in his digging to look at Hodder and ask, “You befriended Pamela Sanger to get access to her father? That’s pretty low.”

“No, no,” Hodder protests. “Not at all. I met her by chance, and once I realized who she was, whose house I was visiting, I always checked that Billy - Sir William - wouldn’t be around whenever I needed to go there.” He swallows. “After so many years of hoping, I wasn’t sure I could take a face-to-face rejection …”

“So why take the box?” John asks, returning to his task with renewed vigour. (Digging suits him. Bent forward slightly at the waist, all the effort of forcing the shovel’s blade into the earth comes from his hips and thighs, making them move in a most appealing manner.)

Realizing he’s staring, Sherlock looks quickly away. “You wanted the photograph, didn’t you?”

But Hodder doesn’t have time to answer because suddenly John’s cries, “I’ve found something!” and he drops down onto his knees to start moving the soil aside more gently with his hands. A few minutes later, he’s extracting a very fine, very dirty, nineteenth century writing box from the ground. Coromandel and brass. Fourteen inches by ten and a half by eight.

Sherlock checks it over. Apart from the mud, it’s undamaged. “At least you had the sense not to force the lock,” he murmurs. (Oh, of _course_. Hodder didn’t _need_ to force it: there were always two keys.)

“Are you going to call the police?” Hodder asks, gazing wistfully at the box.

“No,” Sherlock says. “Sir William engaged me because he didn’t want them involved. But I will have to return the box - _and_ its contents. Unless -” He pauses. “Unless you’d like to do that yourself?”

Hodder gasps and takes a step backwards. “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I never went to him uninvited.” He takes a breath, and reaches inside a pocket to pull out a bunch of keys. Prising the smallest of them from the ring, he hands it to Sherlock. “My copy of the key. Please … tell him I’m sorry.”

“You could go and see him,” John suggests, with an encouraging smile. “Tell him yourself.”

Hodder shakes his head. “No, no. I couldn’t.”

“We’ll take it, then,” Sherlock says. “John - here.”

“First I had to dig for it, and now I’ve got to carry it?” John grumbles, taking it anyway.

Sherlock smiles. “Well, you are dressed for it. A touch of mud might even improve that outfit.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

In the cab on the way back to Baker Street, John sits with Sir William’s writing box on his lap. He’s not saying much (one of his many good points is that he doesn’t feel the need to talk unnecessarily) but every now and again, he rubs a thoughtful fingertip over the box, a far away look in his eyes.

“You think it’s all terribly romantic, don’t you?” Sherlock says, after several minutes of watching him out of the corner of his eye.

John smiles, guilelessly. “Don’t you?”

“Fifty years of pining for someone? Hardly.”

John gives a short laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.”

“Then I’m glad not to have disappointed you.”

John falls silent again and goes back to idly fondling the box, wiping the odd bit of mud off it with the bottom of Mike’s jumper.

They’re just coming off the M25 when John says suddenly, “Aren’t you curious? About the photograph?”

Having solved the case, Sherlock has turned his mind to the more important matter of convincing John to move back into Baker Street. He shakes his head. “No. Are you?”

John nods. “Kind of. Yes.”

Sherlock fishes inside his pocket for the little brass key, and hands it over. “Open it.”

“No, we _can’t_ ,” John says instantly, but his eyes are darting brightly from side to side, and the corners of his mouth have turned up. (He’s tempted.) “We shouldn’t.” (He’s arguing with himself now.) He looks up at Sherlock. “Should we? No, we can’t. I mean, it’s private.”

“We’re private investigators,” Sherlock counters. “We investigate private things. Go on, open it. You know you’re dying to. ”

John frowns and bites his lip as, staring almost hypnotised at the box, he fiddles with the key. (He’s torn. He wants to know, but thinks it’s wrong.)

Losing patience, Sherlock plucks the key from his hand and inserts it in the lock. A quick twist, and the mechanism clicks open.

After a brief hesitation (a final salute to his sense of what’s right), John lifts the lid and flips it open - and almost immediately, slams it shut again. Sherlock just has time to catch a gleam of gold leaf against fine blue velvet before the lid is firmly back in place with John’s hands on top of it, keeping it there. Meanwhile, John himself is staring fixedly at the back of the driver’s head, puffing out little mouthfuls of air, as if in shock.

“Well?” Sherlock prompts. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” John insists, shaking his head - so minutely and so rapidly, he might even be trembling. “Nothing.”

Sherlock grunts. He’s got no interest in seeing Sanger and Hodder _in flagrante_.

The only person he’s ever been interested in is John.

 

* * * * * * *

 

On their arrival back at Baker Street, Sherlock assumes - hopes - that John will want to come up to the flat, but John has other ideas, staying firmly put in the taxi when Sherlock steps out onto the street. Sherlock could wheedle, he supposes, and try to persuade him that 221B is still his home, but it would probably degenerate into a public row, with John going back to Mike’s anyway, so he tries another tack - one that’s all logic and reason.

“You don’t mind bringing the box up, do you?” he asks, deploying irresistibly pleading eyebrows and his very best pout. “I wouldn’t ask but it’s filthy and this coat costs an arm and a leg to clean.”

John sighs. “All right. I could do with picking a few things up anyway.”

(Success!) Sherlock turns quickly away: it wouldn’t do for John to see him grinning.

Up in the flat, Sherlock gets John to set the box on his desk, and whilst John goes up to his own room in search of whatever the things are that he wants to pick up, he considers his options for stopping him from leaving. Kissing him might work, but on the other hand, it might not, and Sherlock’s not sure he wants to put himself through the agony of holding John only to have to let him go again. He goes into the kitchen. Puts the kettle on and teabags into mugs. And hopes.

A little while later, John appears in the living room again. He’s changed - out of Mike’s hideous clothes and into his own, but at the sight of him in that soft, stripy jumper and those horribly touchable brown cords, Sherlock rather wishes he hadn’t because he looks far too good in them, far too _John_.

“Tea?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

John joins him in the kitchen. “Got any milk in?”

Sherlock throws open fridge. (Damn it. The short answer to that one is ‘No’.)

“Never mind,” John says, evidently unsurprised. “I can drink it black, if I have to.”

He’s only drinking tea, but watching him raise the mug to his mouth, watching his lips part, Sherlock’s composure crumbles.

“Don’t go, John,” he says. (It’s not begging if you don’t say ‘please’.) “Stay. Please.” ( _Hell_.)

John’s smile is infinitely kind. “Sherlock, we’ve been through this. I can’t.”

“Why not? I need you.”

John sighs heavily. “No,” he says, “you don’t. You think you do, but all you really need is someone who’ll remember to do the shopping and pay the bills.”

Sherlock glares at him. (Why won’t he listen?) “Don’t tell me what I think.”

“Why not?” John demands, glaring back. “You’re always telling me what _I_ think.”

“That’s because _I_ know,” Sherlock says, impatience making him snap. “You’re merely assuming.”

“Really?” John sneers. “You know, do you? Go on then. Tell me. What am I thinking now?”

Sherlock considers. (John cares. His jealousy over those women in The King’s Head Bar proved that.) “That you want to move back in.”

“Good,” John nods, but his tone is bitter, and his eyes hard. “That’s good. Now tell me why I’m not going to.”

Sherlock clutches at the air in frustration. “I don’t know. It’s not logical. _Tell_ me.”

John puts down his mug. (This is serious.) “I’m not going to move back in because, if I do, I’ll disappear. It’s all right for you: you’re Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock bloody Holmes - with your cheekbones, and your swishy coat and your massive intellect. When you walk into a room, everybody sits up and takes notice. You don’t even have to try. But it’s not like that for me. People don’t pay me that kind of attention - and when I’m next to _you_ , I might as well be invisible. I used to be okay with that …” He pauses, swallows, and when he speaks again, the lump in his throat is audible. “I used to be okay with it because, for a while, I managed convince myself that at least _you_ saw me. That I was more than your blogger and your flatmate. More, even, than your friend. But I’m not. I’m just part of the furniture, really, aren’t I? You didn’t even care when I told you I’d slept with Sarah.”

“I _did_ care.” The words sound almost as hollow and broken as Sherlock feels. (John is miserable. I’ve made him miserable. Why would he want to stay?)

John sighs. “Maybe you did. In your own way. But it’s not enough, Sherlock. You don’t trust me. You won’t even let me touch you. I’m sorry. I’d better go.” He picks up the little bag of clothes he’s packed and turns towards the door.

Panic hits Sherlock so hard, he can scarcely breathe. “No. Wait,” cries, helplessly, flailing for some way to stop this, because instinct is telling him that, if John goes now, he’ll never come back. Oh, they’ll still work together … maybe … although maybe they won’t … (Oh, god.) (Have to think of something. Have to think of something quickly.) (Just need a minute, a minute to process all this new information and make a plan, come up with a compelling argument.) (If only there were some way to delay him in the meantime … Oh! Yes!) Sherlock pulls himself quickly together. “Well, before you go, I owe you for that taxi from Cheltenham, don’t I? What was it? Thirty quid?”

“Forty.”

“Forty. Yes. I’ve got some cash in my room. Just … stay there.”

Sherlock escapes to his bedroom. He knows he doesn’t have long. Pacing about, trying to calm himself down, he wishes, desperately, that he were better with words. (What does John want to hear? That days with him in them are brighter, more interesting? That Baker Street is hell without him? That life scarcely seems worth living when he's gone? Will he even believe it? What does he want? Oh god, what does he _want_?)

Nerves a-jangle and his heart beating far too fast, Sherlock opens his sock drawer and takes out two twenty-pound notes. The residue, he realizes, from his doomed attempt to dull the pain with cocaine the last time John left him. Clenching his fist around the notes, nails digging into his palm, he goes back to the kitchen.

But John isn’t in the kitchen. He’s in the living room, standing in front of Sherlock’s desk with his back turned, and there’s something very strange about him: he’s unnaturally still, almost frozen. Alarmed, Sherlock walks towards him, expecting him to turn around at any moment but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even seem to hear Sherlock approach - because he’s staring at something on the desk, utterly transfixed.

Coming up quietly behind him, Sherlock peers over his shoulder to see what it is. And, for a second, it feels as if the world has stopped turning.

John has opened the box and there, inside it, lies the thing he’s captivated by: the photo Sir William was so eager to have back. It’s faded, and discoloured with age, creased and tatty at the edges from frequent handling - but the image is still sharp and clear. William Sanger and Joe Hodder, taken decades ago, when they were both still young men. Dressed in a smart three-piece suit, pin-striped, with a crisp white shirt and a sober tie, Sir William looks every bit the up-and-coming diplomat - commanding, respectable, upright. But to his left, Joe Hodder presents a very different picture. Looking back over his shoulder towards the camera, he’s stripped to the waist, with his arms tied at the wrists and stretched up above his head, revealing what seems like acres of muscled back, naked and vulnerable. And, in William Sanger’s right hand, there’s the curved handle of something that looks suspiciously like a cane.

In that moment, in that single moment, everything becomes clear. Everything. All of it. John’s strange behaviour, Mycroft’s advice, Warrant Officer Jenkins and hundreds of little moments which, until now, have seemed unconnected and random. With a fierce rush of triumph, Sherlock realizes he’s solved another case that could easily have proved impossible. The knowledge makes him light-headed with pride and he can’t wait to share it.

"John."

John starts at the sound of his name and he closes the box lid with a loud bang, but he doesn’t turn around.

There’s a long, long pause, in which the only sound is of John breathing and the traffic passing by outside. Sherlock waits it out patiently, thinking of all the clues he’s missed until now: John’s willingness to follow orders, his love of danger, his susceptibility to the forceful approach, and the way he’s never happier than being pushed up against a wall, or being held seriously tight. Gripping him by the wrist will undo him, and biting at his throat makes him fall apart. He loves hard, demanding kisses, and the feel of a firm hand on his cock. Hell, even his books were a clue, Sherlock realizes, now he comes to think of it. _This_ is why the Rousseau discussion unnerved him, not concern that Sarah might have been embarrassed. Why on earth didn't Sherlock see it before? All his life, John has been fading into the background, being quietly competent and reliable and extraordinary, without ever being really noticed. But deep down, he wants passion - and proof that he’s capable of inspiring it. He wants to be overwhelmed.

Sherlock feels his pulse quicken. “ _John_.”

"Um, yes?"

Sherlock leans in, savouring the moment (the big reveal is always exciting and this one more than most). “What exactly,” he says, letting his lips brush John’s ear as he speaks, “did you want me to do when you told me about Sarah?”

John doesn’t answer, and Sherlock knows that it’s either because he doesn’t trust himself to speak, or because he simply can’t. Either way, it’s proof of his theory.

“You wanted me to tell you what you were thinking earlier,” Sherlock goes on, his voice no more a gravelly whisper now, “so how about this: you wanted me to hurt you. And you still want me to. Not badly - but enough.”

“What?” John finally manages, in an endearingly strangled kind of way, and he spins around, trying to arrange his features into an expression of complete and utter bewilderment. “What _the hell_ are you talking about?”

Just beyond John, poking out from under a pile of books on the desk, Sherlock suddenly spots his riding crop. He pulls it free. “You wanted - you _want_ me to be angry with you. You want me to punish you.”

“Why on earth would I want that?” John asks, but his tone is breathless, not outraged.

“Because, for you, it would be proof that I care - concrete, physical proof.”

“I … no …” John stammers. His eyes are wide and he forgets to close his mouth.

Sherlock catches him by the wrist. “Don’t lie to me, John: you know who I am; it doesn’t work.” He presses the tips of two fingers to John’s radial artery where the pulse is beating frantically. “You want me to. You want me to badly.”

John blinks and his tongue darts out to lick at his lips. When he looks up at Sherlock, his pupils are huge. He’s quivering, torn between fear and embarrassment and desire, and a great surge of affection wells up in Sherlock. He kisses him softly.

“I’ve been an idiot,” he murmurs, touching their foreheads together. “I saw, John, but I didn’t observe. Forgive me?”

John seems too stunned to reply, so Sherlock kisses him again, harder this time, thrilled at how readily John’s mouth opens, and how easily he lets himself be pulled closer. All his life, Sherlock’s been afraid of losing control, but - by some miracle - with John, he won’t have to. He may be too screwed up to have sex with him, but at least he can give him this.

“You’re going to go to my bedroom now, John,” he says, when he finally breaks the kiss. “And when you get there, you’re going to take your clothes off. All of them.”

John’s expression is heart-breakingly grateful but he shakes his head, saying, “I can’t. You shouldn’t have to-”

Sherlock takes his hand again and squeezes it gently. “I’m not asking you: I’m telling you. Come on.” John makes a little sound of protest, but Sherlock silences it with a quick kiss and, at last, John allows himself to be led.

Once in his room, Sherlock closes the door. He kisses John softly once more to reassure him, then sits down on the bed. “Your clothes, John. All of them.”

At first, John looks so uncertain, Sherlock thinks he might bolt, but after a few deep breaths, he sets about undressing with trembling hands and frequent questioning glances towards Sherlock. Sherlock just nods in reply, and leans back on his elbows, watching.

John’s jumper comes off first - ruffling his hair and giving him a wild and even more skittish look - then his shoes and socks, revealing small, pale feet (unlike John’s face, neck and hands, they’ve never been exposed to the desert sun), and thick, blue veins. Under Sherlock’s scrutiny, John’s toes curl reflexively, and a sympathetic tingle shoots up the back of Sherlock’s thighs: it’s one thing to be looked at closely; quite another when it’s a prelude to something else.

John’s hands move haltingly up to his throat, where - shirt-button by shirt-button - more and more skin slowly emerges, tanned at first, then creamily fair, until the shirt comes off entirely, leaving John’s upper body completely bare. Sherlock has seen him shirtless before of course, but until now, has always tried not to look. Tonight, he feels entitled (and besides, John _wants_ to be seen) so he studies him openly, letting his gaze travel inexorably from the base of his throat, where the tension in his jaw is making the tendons stand out in taut lines, and out across his shoulders. John has no sharp, ugly angles on his torso, no jutting bones or prominent veins, just smoothly soft skin and muscle - and scarring: there's a tattered cobweb of raised, silver marks on John's shoulder, just below the collar bone. Sadness clutches at Sherlock’s heart, and a great wave of protectiveness washes over him, making him want to press his lips to that broken skin and kiss it reverently, but he can't, because if he does - if he starts thinking about how those marks got there - he'll never be able to go through with this. He won't be able to give John what he wants, and then John won't believe that his feelings for him go deeper than convenience and friendship, and he'll leave, and then Sherlock's world will-

(Stop!) (Breathe, just breathe.)

Counting his breaths, Sherlock forces his gaze onwards, down onto John's chest: he'll do whatever it takes to stop John from abandoning him.

John's nipples are dark brown and so tightly puckered that, even just looking at them, Sherlock gets such a vivid sensation of hardness under his fingertips and against his tongue he might already be touching and tasting them, and when John starts to unfasten his flies, Sherlock shifts restlessly on the bed. This isn’t the dispassionate control he’d expected to feel: it’s lust. Desire.

Apparently oblivious, John bends forward to ease off one trouser leg, then the other. The legs beneath them are slim and, like John’s forearms, sprinkled with fine, light brown hair that adds even more definition to their well-shaped muscles - muscles it’s only too easy for Sherlock to imagine jumping and flexing under his hands. Too easy, and far too arousing.

“Pants too,” he orders, in an attempt to recover some self-possession. “All of it.”

John’s pants are black and close-fitting, and they're doing nothing to conceal the fact that he’s already hard. (However nervous he is, however embarrassed, he wants this.) As the pants come off and are dropped to the floor with the rest of John’s clothes, Sherlock picks up his crop and stands.

“Face the wall.”

John turns without a murmur.

(Oh god, the scarring on his back is worse, much worse: extensive and jagged.) Sherlock swallows hard. “Put your hands flat against the wall.”

Letting out a long breath, John immediately obeys, both palms flat against Sherlock's poster of the Periodic Table.

At the sight of him, completely naked and waiting, Sherlock’s stomach churns. He’s not sure he can do this, especially now he’s seen the evidence of how badly John was injured. John's shoulders, he tells himself firmly, are most definitely out of bounds.

(But if not his shoulders, _where_?)

Sherlock considers the area beneath them instead, but he’s had injuries to his own ribs, and is all too aware how shocking the pain involved can be, and how hard it can make it to breathe. (Definitely nowhere on John’s ribcage either.)

But below the ribs, there are kidneys and there’s no way in hell Sherlock’s going to risk damaging those.

(It’ll have to be John’s buttocks then. His wonderfully rounded, tight backside.)

Swallowing again, and worrying at the little triangle of leather on the end of the crop with his fingers, Sherlock walks over to stand at John’s side.

“Six,” he thinks, steeling himself - then realizes he’s said it out loud. Six _at most_ , he adds silently. He can manage six, but he can’t bring himself to do more than that. (Six will be all right, won’t it?) (Six is traditional.) (It was always six at school.)

With a nod, John turns his head to look Sherlock in the eye. His pupils are blown, his nostrils flaring. “Tell me why,” he says quietly

Sherlock blinks. (Why? Why _what_?) (Oh! Why _this_.) (Because you want it, John. It’s for you. I want to be able to do _something_ for you.)

“Because you need it,” Sherlock tells him, and he runs the tip of the crop lightly down John’s back, like a caress.

John’s shoulders tense, and his eyes search Sherlock’s face. “But _why_?” he asks again, and Sherlock realizes that this is a different question, the important one, and he has to give the right answer.

( _He wants you to show some emotion, to claim him … to make him yours. And he wants you to do it in no uncertain terms._ )

“Because you slept with Sarah,” Sherlock says, experimentally, watching John’s reaction intently. Encouragingly, his eyes flutter shut for a moment, and he nods again. Heartened, Sherlock strikes him a smart blow across both buttocks.

John shivers, draws in a breath. “Yes.”

“Because you tried to lie to me about it,” Sherlock continues, dropping his tone to the deliberately hypnotic rumble he normally uses on Molly, but with an added edge of menace that makes John’s nostrils flare even more widely in anticipation. He’s entrancing like this - compliant, but not afraid; setting his strength and good sense aside to surrender completely - and Sherlock wants to wrap his arms around him and kiss him breathless. Instead, he draws his arm back and cracks the crop against John’s backside for a second time, hard this time.

The noise alone is alarming, and John’s whole body jerks under the blow. For a moment, Sherlock’s heart is in his throat (oh god! too hard, too hard!) but, although John’s breathing has become audibly ragged, he doesn’t move, nor does his erection show any sign of waning. Even so, Sherlock needs a moment before he can continue. He takes a deep breath, flinching at the sight of the red stripe rising on John’s backside. (It’s going to bruise.) He needs to be more careful, remember everything he knows about contusions and how to avoid them.

Exhaling slowly, he calms himself down by touching the end of the crop to the back of John’s knee, the one nearest him, and following the length of his thigh with it, teasingly light up the hamstring muscle, raising the fine hairs there, before sweeping it up and under crease where John’s leg meets his behind.

Surprise, Sherlock thinks with a sudden flash of inspiration; cut back on power and rely on surprise and sting. He draws the crop back and, with a deft flick of his wrist, strikes John - once, twice - in rapid succession, not allowing him to catch his breath between blows. This time John groans and his head drops forward. Sweat has broken out on the back of his neck, and he’s starting to find it hard to keep his braced arms steady against the wall.

(Four. That makes four.) To Sherlock’s relief, the new stripes are less angry, less red. (And John doesn’t seem to object to a lighter touch: he’s panting now.)

“Because you left me,” Sherlock says quietly - so quietly he wonders if John even hears it - as he swings his arm again. He hopes not; needing John this badly is pathetic.

This time when the crop lands John’s back arches, and his head tips back, his mouth falling open as he gasps for breath. “Sherlock.” He’s started to shudder now and his voice is strangled, desperate, but it’s not a plea for Sherlock to stop: it’s a plea for more - and Sherlock’s sense of control comes flooding back in a dizzying rush of adrenalin and power. To his shamed horror, he feels the pulse in his cock start to thud. He doesn’t want to hurt John - not really, not badly - but making him shudder has been his dearest pleasure ever since the first time he achieved it, and even this way is better than not at all.

“Because, John,” he says, as threateningly as he can manage whilst trying to rein in his own arousal, “you are mine.” Raising his arm again, he flicks his wrist and brings the crop down with a loud crack for the final time. “ _Mine_.”

John collapses against the wall, his hot, damp forehead incongruously pressed to the quiet order of the Periodic Table, whilst sweat falls in visible drops down his spine towards his reddened buttocks and trembling thighs.

Sherlock tosses the crop aside, spins him around and kisses him. Once on the forehead (like an absolution) and then, much less chastely on the mouth, plunging his tongue deep into it as he reaches for John’s erection. Vaguely registering moisture (is this sweat or is John leaking?), Sherlock begins to stroke John’s wonderful cock - slowly at first, as he reacquaints himself with the feel of it, the heat and weight of it - and then firmer and faster, until John’s hips are pumping helplessly in time to his rhythm and John is moaning with so much abandon, their kissing turns random and haphazard, with Sherlock capturing John’s mouth only to lose it again.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, “Don’t _ever_ do that again,” and John gasps, as much from the words, as from what’s Sherlock’s doing to him with his hand, “I might not be so lenient next time.”

With a cry and another shudder, John comes hard, rising up on the balls of his feet, his head banging back against the wall, before going limp. (This is beautiful. This is John falling apart. Not neatly, not gently, but absolutely.) Sherlock catches him as he starts to slide down the wall, one arm about his waist.

“John?”

Eyes closed, John just moans, and Sherlock kisses him again, aching with lust as he presses against him. He wants John. Wants him more than he's ever wanted anything.

“John?” he whispers urgently. “Can you stay like this? Can you just … let me?”

“Let you?”

“I want …” Sherlock struggles for the right words. His tongue feels thick, and his usually nimble brain as if it’s swimming through treacle. “I think I want …”

John’s eyes blink open, and he raises a hand to Sherlock’s face. “Say it,” he whispers, “please. Say it.”

“I-I think I want to have sex with you,” Sherlock stammers out.

“Not ‘have sex’,” John begs, his words slurred.

Sherlock’s brain is fogged with desire, and now John is making him think. It’s agony, but at the same time exquisite. (What does he want me to say? What is he asking for?) “I want to …” (Oh!) “I want to ... _fuck_ you, John.”

“Not ‘want’,” John persists, against all reason, against all mercy.

Sherlock looks at him. He’s boneless against the wall and barely able to stand, his thighs trembling from the effort of trying. He’s not calm now, nor self-contained; he’s needy and exposed and abandoning himself to Sherlock completely.

Sherlock leans in and bites lightly at the skin beneath his jaw. “John Watson,” he growls against it, “I am _going_ to fuck you.”

A tremor goes though John. “God, yes, please,” he breathes, and wraps his arms around Sherlock, kissing him wildly, his mouth, his face, his neck - any bit of skin he can reach.

Sherlock half-drags, half carries him towards the bed, tearing one-handedly at his own clothes in his eagerness to be rid of them. His two hundred-quid shirt loses a button, and the zip on his flies gets caught on his pants, probably putting an eight hundred-pound suit out of commission, but he doesn’t care. Clothes are just clothes, however much they cost; what’s important is that John isn’t going to desert him, he’s going to stay. And what’s more, he’s going to lie still and let Sherlock inside him. Sherlock can hardly believe it.

On the bed, John lies sprawled where Sherlock’s dropped him, waiting, as Sherlock yanks off his socks and pulls off his pants.

Naked at last, Sherlock bends down to kiss him. “Will oil of some sort do?” he asks because, contrary to Mycroft’s beliefs, he’s not a complete idiot when it comes to sex. (Thank god for the internet.) He knows what goes where, how to get it there, and how to avoid causing serious damage. As for the rest … well, he’s a quick learner. (And how difficult can it be if even Anderson can manage it?) (Well, okay, bad example. Anderson’s straight but the principle is the same.) (Nearly.)

“Jelly,” John says. “My room. Top drawer.”

Sherlock first thought is that he doesn’t want to let John out of his sight, not even for the amount of time it will take him to get upstairs and down again, but his second - that John didn’t think to take his lubricant the first time he left, nor even today when his packing felt much more final - makes the loss bearable. Even so, he’s up and down the stairs in a flash, and arrives back in his room panting from running.

Kneeling on the bed next to John, he twists open John’s tube of Durex Play ( _Play_? This isn’t _playing_. Who thinks up these names? Are they all morons?) and asks, “You’ll tell me if it hurts, won’t you?”

John merely grunts.

“I’m serious, John.”

“Yes. All right. I’ll tell you. Hurry up.”

Applying lubricant in preparation for intercourse, Sherlock quickly discovers, is a very different matter from using it alone. On the odd occasion he’s used it in the past, his aim was always quick and efficient release, but with John, well, he’d rather not finish before he’s even started - and that seems a very real possibility. Little sparks of electricity fire at every touch, and go dancing and down up his spine, taking his breath away.

Applying lubricant to John isn’t much better either, not with him moaning wantonly at the insertion of a first finger, and clutching at fistfuls of duvet when a second goes in. The excitement and novelty of it is bad enough - as is the inevitable imaginative leap to how muscles as tight as these will feel when they’re clenched around other, more sensitive parts - but when Sherlock tries moving his fingers, to thrust them gently against what (according to Wikipedia) must surely be John’s prostate, John cries out and his hips cant up from the bed, making Sherlock seriously question his own sanity in ever believing he could do this and remain in control.

“Now,” John urges, pulling Sherlock down on top of him and wrapping his legs around his waist. “Fuck me now.”

So much skin-to-skin contact at once, so much body heat and the scent of sweat, come close to unravelling Sherlock and, when John rocks under him, he has to clench his teeth to ride out the wave of pleasure that follows as skin and bone and muscle shift to accommodate him and let him in. The next moment, he’s sinking into John, gasping for air, squeezed unbelievably tight.

(Oh god, oh god, oh god.)

Sherlock holds himself very still, afraid that if he moves at all, he’ll fall apart in a heartbeat.

“John?” he asks, mouth dry and barely working. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” John purrs, with a little undulation of his spine.

The movement is all it takes to rob Sherlock of his ability to keep still. The tug on his cock unleashes a torrent of want, and before he knows what he’s doing, his body has taken over, driving into John hard.

As Sherlock pounds and thrusts, John responds in kind, grasping Sherlock’s torso with his thighs as he fights for enough leverage to move his hips, and then John’s hands are on Sherlock’s chest, caressing and stroking him, his fingers tweaking lightly at Sherlock’s nipples.

It’s too much. It’s not lying still. It’s not just letting him.

Taking his weight on his knees, Sherlock makes a grab for John’s wrists, and pins them above his head. “Don’t,” he warns. “ _Don’t._ ”

Immediately the tension goes out of John’s muscles and he nods, but Sherlock’s not taking any chances, and when he starts thrusting again, he keeps a tight hold on John’s hands, preventing him from moving them.

“God, “ John moans, head arching back into the pillow. “Yes. Like that. Just like that.”

He says other things too, but Sherlock scarcely hears them: the sensations building inside him are too intense now, fast approaching a peak. His whole body is tingling, from the nape of his neck down to the soles of his feet as the tension in his groin winds tighter and tighter. His very next breath will send him over the edge, he knows, and he does his best not to take it, but the pull is too strong. His cock is inside John, pulsing with the need to go deeper, and - unable to resist it - Sherlock has to breathe, has to move. He drags in a breath, exhales it, and falls.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

**_Darkness, warmth_ **

 

At some point in the night, Sherlock awakes to find John lying curled up on his side next to him. Inching closer, he presses a kiss to the roughened patch of scar tissue on his shoulder, his heart full to overflowing.

(John Watson.)

( _John_.)

Tenderly, Sherlock runs his hand over John’s injured shoulder, following the line of the bone there, then down his arm to where it’s bent at the elbow, then down again, onto his waist, and over the curve of his hip where he curls his fingers around the jut of bone, pulling John closer, until his buttocks are nestled snugly against Sherlock's groin.

He’d only meant it to be a cuddle, but the contact ignites a fresh fire of want that makes him moan with hunger and rub himself against John, holding him tight.

If John was asleep before, he’s awake now and, reaching back, he pulls Sherlock’s hip even closer to his own, then tugs it with him as he rolls over onto his front. The invitation is clear enough and Sherlock follows, settling in between John’s legs as he spreads them. Neither of them says a word. There are better ways of communicating than words, Sherlock has realized, and when John shuffles up onto his elbows and knees, he’s right behind him, pushing into him once more.

It’s slow to start with, slow and gentle, with John rocking his hips to Sherlock’s leisurely pace, but it doesn’t stay gentle for long. Not when John drops his head to the pillow and reaches for one of Sherlock’s hand to plant it firmly on the back of his own neck. For a second, Sherlock’s taken aback, not knowing how to respond: it seems wrong to hold John down like this whilst he fucks him, but if it’s what John wants, then he’ll give it to him. Over the past few weeks, Sherlock has come to realize he’ll give John just about anything he wants. And what John wants most is to be overwhelmed.

It’s rough, and frantic, and perfect, and as Sherlock lies holding John afterwards, he doesn’t think he could love him more if he tried.

 

* * * * * * *

 

**_February 12th_ **

 

Sherlock wakes up on a sheet that’s sticky in some places and stiff in others, and it ought to make his skin crawl with the need to wash but it doesn’t because it smells of John. He breathes the smell of him in contentedly, smiling to himself, as the memory of last night returns, so perfect it might almost be a dream ... were it not for the sordid state of the bed, and the little twinges nagging at his thighs and lower back when he rolls over to reach for John again.

But, although the bed is still warm from his body, John is no longer in it. Sherlock feels mildly cheated by that but he's too happy to be be truly irritated, and he gets up to go in search of him, pausing only to pull on his dressing gown.

John is in the kitchen, at the sink, filling the kettle. His hair is damp (he’s already showered), and he’s fully dressed in jeans and a shirt (clean clothes, changed from yesterday). He looks positively edible, and as he moves purposefully from sink to cupboard, and from cupboard to table, Sherlock leans against the door-frame to watch him. A full minute passes before John notices him, time enough for Sherlock to have replayed several scenes from last night in his head in glorious detail, and to be hungry for a repeat performance of all of them.

“Good morning,” he says when, at last, John looks up and notices him.

John takes a step backwards, and collides with the cupboard behind him. “Uh, hello,” he manages, awkwardly.

Sherlock feels a smile start to play at the corner of his mouth. He hadn’t expected John to be shy. “Are you all right?”

John flushes pink. “Um, yes, fine, thanks. Fine,” he mutters, avoiding eye contact by busying himself with putting slices of bread into the toaster. “You?”

“Marvellous,” Sherlock replies. (Really, this is adorable: John, blushing like a schoolgirl.)

“Good,” John nods, just as the kettle comes to the boil. “Glad to hear it.” He lifts the kettle and pours some of the boiling water into a mug. After swirling his teabag around for a while, he removes it and drops it into the sink. As he moves back to the table, his gaze meets Sherlock’s again. He jumps slightly and his expression darkens.

“What?” he demands, suddenly and unexpectedly testy. “What are you looking at me like that for?”

Sherlock realizes he must have been smiling openly. “I was thinking about last night.”

“What about last night?” John asks warily.

“You,” Sherlock admits, allowing his smile to bloom into something much warmer and he can’t help but laugh at himself a little - at how enthusiastically he seems to have taken to sex after avoiding it for so long - but instead of John smiling back, all the colour drains from his face and suddenly Sherlock’s afraid. Afraid that he misread every clue, every signal. That he went too far.

“Are you ... all right?” he asks again.

“Of course I am,” John snaps. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

(Oh god, he’s not all right.) (How _could_ he be after … _that_?)

John’s toast pops up from the toaster with a loud click and he snatches it up, slaps it onto a plate, and butters it furiously, elbows tucked in tight to his sides, his every movement suddenly tense and brittle. Plate in one hand, tea in the other, he sets his breakfast down on the table and sits.

(Carefully. Painfully. Wincing as he does so and biting his lip.)

Sherlock shudders. He’s done a lot of things in his life that he’s not proud of - a lot of them careless and unfeeling, and some of them actually cruel - but they pale into insignificance beside the thought that he’s hurt John. “I’m sorry,” he says, wanting to envelop John in his arms and kiss him but not daring. “This is all too … I didn’t think ...”

(Didn’t think _what_? That taking a riding crop to him might make him nervous and jumpy afterwards? What am I? An idiot?)

John flushes redder still. “It’s fine,” he says getting up again, leaving his breakfast untouched. “You don’t have to explain anything. To be honest, I was expecting this.”

“What?” Sherlock asks, uncomprehending. “ _What_ were you expecting?”

“You. Taking the piss.”

“What?” Sherlock asks again, even more confused now. “How am I taking the piss?”

“You were _smirking_.”

Sherlock clenches his jaw. “I was _smiling_ at you.”

“No, you weren’t. You were smirking. And who could blame you? You thought I was an idiot before; right now you must be thinking I’m insane as well. Or pathetic.”

“I don’t-” Sherlock begins, then stops. Actions speak louder than words. He’ll kiss John, _show_ him what he really thinks of him, but when he makes a move towards him, John flinches.

“Don’t. I can’t bear you being condescending … not over this.”

This whole conversation is getting away from Sherlock, and John’s unwillingness to listen to him is beginning to grate. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says crossly.

“And there it is,” John cries, as if laying down a trump card. “You think I’m ridiculous. Well, I’m glad I’ve made you laugh.”

“Oh for god’s sake!” Sherlock growls, but before he can try to talk some sense into John, there’s a loud hammering on their door, and the sound of Mrs Hudson’s voice crying, “Sherlock! John! Quickly! Quickly! Please!”

Ignoring her, Sherlock makes another, more determined, attempt at taking John in his arms, but John nimbly evades him, and opens the door.

Mrs Hudson bursts in, followed by Lestrade.

“It’s Molly,” they say together, Lestrade grey with worry, and Mrs Hudson in tears.

”What about Molly?” Sherlock snaps, striding over to loom over them both in his best Piss-Off-Now manner. “I’m busy. I don’t care about Molly.”

“Oh, _Sherlock_!” Mrs Hudson sniffs, disapprovingly.

“We think she might be in trouble,” Lestrade says, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. “Got a call this morning from some friends of hers. They all went out last night. Ran into some blokes and ended up at a party. At Eden. Now she’s not answering her phone.”

“Eden," Sherlock echoes, his irritation now replaced by dread, as his head fills with excruciating memories of personal and professional failings. “Mark Woodley’s place.”

John cocks his head to one side, their argument forgotten. “Who’s Mark Woodley?”

“Gangland boss,” Lestrade tells him. “Drugs dealer.”

“Those are just his more respectable occupations,” Sherlock cuts in. “He’s also a human trafficker, a rapist and a murderer. Although we’ve ... _I've_ never been able to prove it.”

John looks stricken. “And he’s got Molly? Oh god. How can I help? I want to help.”

(Let John near that bastard? Never. Besides ...) Sherlock seizes him by the elbow and steers him over to the windows, out of earshot of the others. "You need to rest," he mutters fiercely.

John shakes free and puts his hands on his hips. "What about you, then?" he demands. "Are _you_ going to rest?"

" _I_ don't need to," Sherlock hisses back. "But you .. I ..." He trails off, unable to say it.

For a moment, John doesn't say anything but as he studies Sherlock's face, his expression slowly softens. "This is you being gallant, isn't it?"

"This is me telling you to stay home."

John sucks his cheeks in and looks down at the floor, as if considering. A moment later he's looking up again and smiling. "No."

"No?" (What happened to following orders?)

" _No_ ," John says, still smiling. "I'm coming with you, Sherlock - wherever, whenever. Just tell me what you need."


	8. Life Sentence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Summary:** As Sherlock and John struggle to adjust to their new relationship, they set out to rescue Molly from the clutches of a vicious gangland boss with whom Sherlock has a bit of a history ...
> 
> The final chapter of this story.

  


  


**_Saturday February 12th - 10.30 am_ **

 

John’s expression is so quietly determined, and the frame of mind he’s projecting so thoroughly intransigent, that Sherlock knows his only hope of persuading him to stay at home (and thus out of Woodley’s reach) would be to tie him to a chair. The visuals the thought instantly conjures are horribly distracting (Would he like that? Maybe he would. What about a bed? Would he enjoy being tied to a bed?) but before Sherlock can get too lost in them (put it all on the list of things to find out), Lestrade is speaking, answering something Mrs Hudson must have said.

“ ‘Course, we’re keeping a discreet eye on him _and_ his club, but we can’t do more than that. Not with the SOCA boys involved. Things are a bit what you’d call _delicate_ at the moment, and if any of us get in the way, the Chief Constable will have their guts for garters - but, Christ, this is _Molly_. I know the girl. I can’t just stand by and let that evil …” Lestrade takes a deep breath and exhales it again. “Which is why I need Sherlock - and his tendency to go off on his own.” He shoots Sherlock a pleading look. “So, will you? Help?”

Sherlock nods. “I need five minutes. And addresses. Molly’s flat, Woodley’s home, Molly’s friends’. Give it all to John.”

Leaving John to collect the information they need, and to comfort a still snivelling Mrs Hudson, Sherlock goes off to shave and shower. Rinsing away the last, lingering traces of John from his body, he feels an unexpected, sharp pang of regret, but he reminds himself that Woodley is a dangerously perceptive man, observant and ruthless. If he were to suspect … when it’s all so new … when Sherlock’s not even sure he hasn’t already ruined it himself … (No. There’s no room for self-doubt. Not now. Not this time.) Sherlock takes out his sharpest suit (Paul Smith, Italian wool, navy, bone buttons), his crispest shirt (Gucci, 100% cotton, slim fit) and his most expensive shoes (John Lobb Becketts, black grain calf). He’s moved on from the last time he had dealings with Woodley. He’s colder, clearer, and more in control.

When he returns to the living room, the mirror above the fireplace tells him the outfit is perfect; the look in John’s eyes tells him it’s much more than that. John is staring at him, open-mouthed, almost as if he’s forgotten how to breathe, but when he realizes what he’s doing, he looks quickly away, then back again, but now with a curious, bordering-on-mocking look. “You dress up for the bad guys now?”

“Of course. Coming?”

John follows him down the stairs and out onto Baker Street, where Sherlock hails a taxi and John gives the driver an address in Clerkenwell.

As they take their seats in the cab, Sherlock notices that John is being every bit as careful about sitting down as he was in the kitchen earlier, and it sends a rush of something dark through him that he would love to be able to tell himself is guilt, but it isn’t, and it makes him fervently wish they were back in the flat together and alone.

“Are you all right?” he asks, yet again, moving closer. (Sod that ‘Please fasten your seatbelt’ sign.)

“You’ve already asked me that,” John points out, “and I’ve already told you that I’m fine.”

“I know, but …”

John sighs heavily. “Look, can we not do this?”

“Do what?”

“You - being all tactful and concerned. You forget, I’m a doctor; I know what that tone means. It means you think there’s something seriously wrong with me.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Sherlock protests, feeling suddenly foolish. (This is all so annoyingly confusing.) “I just … I don’t like the idea of you being sore, all right?”

John smiles at him. “It’s okay, Sherlock. It’ll pass.”

“How long does that take, usually?” Sherlock asks, before he can stop himself. ( _Usually_? Oh, hell! Way to sound like an idiot!) (And a possessive, jealous idiot, at that.)

A mischievous twinkle comes into John’s eyes. “After anal intercourse? It depends. Anything from half a day to two, maybe three. This time? I’m reckoning on at least three. You’re quite …”

At the way he says it - his voice pitched so low it’s almost a purr - Sherlock’s heart flips over, and the pulse in his throat forces itself onto his consciousness. (I did it right!) A second later, he’s more aware of his stomach tightening, and of sweat prickling at his armpits. (I did it wrong!) He tries not to let either feeling show but John is watching him too closely.

“Did you hear me complaining?”

Sherlock shakes his head, too quickly to appear anything other than completely out of his depth. He swallows. “And, uh-” He scratches the back of his head. “- the other thing. That I did. How long will that …” His fingers flutter inarticulately.

John looks him in the eye for what feels like an eternity. “I don’t know,” he says eventually.

(He doesn’t know? Why doesn’t he know? How can he not know?) (Oh! Of course. It must depend. On the instrument. On how many strokes. How hard …) Sherlock shifts in his seat, appalled as another surge of arousal goes through him at the memory of the way John arched and panted.

“Well, what about with your Warrant Officer Jenkins?” he asks, trying to distract himself by taking refuge in information and data. “In general.”

John shakes his head. “Sherlock, it wasn’t- _What_? Hang on a minute! How do you know that name?”

Sherlock grimaces. “Mycroft,” he says, hoping that his own obvious embarrassment at having been found out will prove appeasement enough.

It doesn’t. “ _Mycroft_! You mean … oh god, no.” John drops his head into his hands. “No, no, no. This isn’t happening. It’s just a dream. A nightmare.”

“You know what he’s like. Always interfering.”

John looks up, eyes narrowed. “Did you _ask_ him to investigate me?”

“Me? Ask Mycroft? Are you mad?”

“Then why … And - more to the point - _how_?” John’s head sinks into his hands again. “Oh my god, I don’t want to know, do I?”

“He’s been like this ever since … He thinks I need protecting.”

“There’s a file on me, isn’t there? A bloody Whitehall file.”

“It only says you have trust issues,” Sherlock offers, hopefully, “and that Jenkins tried to help you with them.”

John doesn’t look reassured. “Oh, that’s all right, then,” he says bitterly. “God, and I thought having an ASBO was bad.”

He doesn’t seem to want to talk after that, which is both worrying (John feeling angry and humiliated isn’t good, especially not at the moment), and frustrating (what _actually_ went on between him and this Jenkins? Exactly _how_ did Jenkins try to ‘help’ him?).

(Hell! Why does Molly have to be missing just when John is proving so unnervingly mysterious?)

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Sherlock has never thought about where Molly might live before but, as he stands on the pavement outside her building, looking about, he decides that - with its modest low-rise blocks of flats - this part of Clerkenwell suits her: it’s quiet and neat but quirky, with mismatched windows (arched, square, peaked, some with curved glass, some with balconies), and little splashes of colour, and the occasional tree.

(She should be here now, doing whatever it is she does when she’s not slicing up cadavers or filling in paperwork.)

John stands silently a few feet away, the lines between his eyebrows deeper than usual, the set of his mouth grim. Sherlock wishes he would say something, wishes he could think of something soothing to say himself, but he can’t, so he rings Molly’s doorbell, again and again. After five rings, when there’s still no answer, he presses the next one down, long and insistently, gritting his teeth against the irritating buzz.

“What?” a sharp female voice eventually demands over the intercom.

“I’m looking for Molly Hooper,” Sherlock tells it, pulling himself quickly together. “Or one of her flat-mates.”

“They’ve gone out.”

Locating the security camera, Sherlock assumes a dismayed expression in front of it. “You wouldn’t happen to know where, would you?” When there’s no immediate response, he shifts from dismayed to embarrassed by wrinkling his nose and smiling stupidly. “She’s going to kill me. I was supposed to have been here an hour ago. You wouldn’t know-”

“Try the Starbucks on Goswell Road.”

“Thank you!” Sherlock clasps his hands together in thanks, then presses his forefingers to his lips in supplication of another favour. “Is it far?”

“Five minutes. Take a right at the end of the road.”

 

* * * * * *

 

The coffee shop is, indeed, a mere five minutes away. It’s also crowded, too hot, and full of noise: dozens of conversations, hissing espresso machines and clattering cutlery.

“This is hopeless,” John declares, sullenly, as he follows Sherlock in from the street. “You don’t even know what they look like.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Sherlock replies, preening a little as he casts his eye over the Saturday-morning clientèle and relishing this chance to impress. “We know they’re not men, so that rules out twenty-five percent of the people here. Neither are they married, mothers or schoolgirls … which leaves us with … those two. In the corner. On the sofa. Get me an espresso.” It’s on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue to offer John a ‘please’ as some sort of compensation for the Mycroft fiasco, but, remembering that John like him to be in charge, he swallows the impulse back down again and strides over to the sofa.

The closer he gets, the more convinced he is that he’s correctly identified Molly’s friends: they’re as skinny as she is, long-limbed and long-haired, with the same nervous self-consciousness. The one with sleek black hair and tortoiseshell glasses notices him immediately, and she instantly elbows her ginger companion and whispers something to her behind her hand. Now they’re both looking in his direction, darting little glances at him, gauging whether he’s really approaching _them_ , or not, and smiling incredulously when they realize that yes, he is.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, adopting a North London accent as he pulls up a chair and sits down. “My friend is just getting us coffee.”

Both women look across at John in an assessing kind of way, then at each other. “Be our guest,” the ginger one replies, a trace of pink appearing beneath her freckles.

“I have to admit to an ulterior motive,” Sherlock confides, as they sit staring at him. “I’m rather hoping you’re friends of Molly Hooper’s. Emma, right? And Rachel?”

For some reason, both women’s faces fall, but the ginger one points a finger at herself and says, “Emma. And this Rachel. But Molly’s not here.”

“We don’t know where she is,” Rachel says, folding and refolding an empty sugar wrapper. “To be honest, we’re a bit worried about her. But when we phoned the police, they said all we can do is sit tight for now, because she probably just met someone at the party last night and decided to spend the night with him.”

“And did she?” Sherlock asks. “Meet someone?”

Emma and Rachel exchange more anxious looks. “Maybe,” Rachel admits, at last. “Look, how do you know Molly? You’re not an old boyfriend or anything, are you?”

“Boyfriend? Hardly.”

“So who are you, then?” Rachel asks.

“A colleague,” Sherlock replies, just as John approaches with the coffees. “Ah, thank you, John.”

“John?” Rachel echoes, looking at Emma. “John Watson? Then _you_ must be … Oh my god, you’re _him_.”

All of a sudden, the smiles are gone and there’s real hostility in Rachel’s voice, and bitter disapproval in Emma’s eyes. Unable to comprehend this sudden change in mood, Sherlock looks up at John for a translation.

John smiles. “Yes, this is him. Sherlock. But, seriously, he’s worried about her too. He’s trying to help.”

“How can _he_ help?” Emma demands. “It’s all his fault in the first place.”

“How-?” Sherlock asks, only to be cut off by Rachel, who’d rather talk to John, apparently.

“She’s crazy about him, that’s how. Has been for months. Read her blog. It’s all there.” Rachel lays a hand on her chest and feigns swooning, as she mimics Molly’s voice. “ ‘Oh, he’s so intelligent and he’s really fit and I think I’m in love’. Meanwhile he’s just nice enough to her to get her to do whatever he wants, but never nice enough to make her to feel good about herself. So, she ends up so desperate for attention, she’s flattered - yeah, actually flattered! - when any old sleaze-ball shows an interest. You should see some of the guys she’s been out with since meeting _him_.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Sherlock snaps. “I never encouraged her.”

John’s mouth twists. “Uh, actually - yeah, you did. _Do_.”

“Only because she’s useful!” Sherlock protests (because that’s all it’s ever been about: the work), but far from pacifying Molly’s friends, the declaration only makes them more hostile still.

“You hurt her,” Emma says. “Not that I suppose you care. You probably enjoy hurting people. Feeds your ego or something.”

“Look,” Sherlock says, trying to keep calm, trying not to allow his mind to dwell too much on the accusation, “I’m-

“A bastard,” Rachel tells him. “That’s what you are. A self-centred, manipulative bastard.”

Sherlock’s patience snaps. “And I’m all you’ve got,” he flings back at her. “So stop being an idiot, and start helping. Unless you _want_ to wake up tomorrow to the news that Molly’s been raped and murdered and dumped in a ditch?”

Rachel pales and Emma clamps a hand over her mouth in horror. (Good! They _should_ be horrified. They have no idea what Woodley is capable of.)

“Uh, Sherlock,” John interjects, leaning down to murmur into his ear. “Lay off a bit, okay? This isn’t helping.”

“But it’s a very real possibility, John,” Sherlock says heatedly. “And the longer she’s missing, the more likely it gets. We haven’t got time for this nonsense. _Molly_ hasn’t got time.”

“I know,” John agrees. “But you can’t- You can’t just yell at people and expect-”

Sherlock wasn’t expecting any of this. Logically, Molly’s friends should be more concerned with her current predicament than with her ludicrous infatuation, or his short-comings as an object of obsession. And now John is joining in. It’s too much. Sherlock gets angrily to his feet and glares down at John, saying through gritted teeth, “Shut up.”

John folds his arms, and moves his feet further apart, completely uncowed. (Why isn’t he cowed? Why isn’t he meekly submissive _now_ , when it matters?) “No,” he says quietly, a muscle in his cheek twitching. “You need telling. They’re upset. Play nice.”

“I thought you didn’t want _nice_ ,” Sherlock hisses back, and he shoots a particularly dark look in the general region of John’s backside in a shameless attempt to discomfit him.

But instead of John caving, or hissing back, he merely places a hand on Sherlock’s arm and, letting his fingers sink warningly into the muscles, he turns turns him around to face Molly’s friends again, smiling at them apologetically. “I’m sorry. Can’t take him anywhere. But he’s good at what he does. Very good. So, please - for Molly’s sake - just tell us what you know.” He releases his grip on Sherlock’s arm with what can only be described as a firm little shove in the women’s direction. It makes Sherlock stumble a little, and he has to grab at the back of the chair he recently vacated to stop himself from falling.

Sherlock is half-outraged that John is making him look less than in complete control during a case, and half-stunned that John isn’t being more … less … that’s he’s still so utterly _John_ and not shy about criticizing him or pushing him metaphorically and gently (or literally and roughly in this case) in the right direction.

Straightening his jacket, Sherlock sits back down. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

He’s pretty sure that if John hadn’t intervened he’d be being met with stony silence, but people _like_ John, and after a few more angry glares, Emma starts speaking.

“We were at Eden, dancing. Molly does this crazy dance. Flaps her arms about.” Emma pauses to demonstrate, and nearly sends her coffee flying. “Usually people keep out of her way, but last night she ended up slapping some girl right in the mouth. She was really embarrassed, and kept apologizing - you know Molly; she wouldn’t hurt a fly intentionally - but the other girl was drunk, and she lashed out. The next thing we knew, Molly was on the floor with this girl trying to pull her hair out. Then people started gathering around them and yelling “Fight!” Before we could do a thing to help her, this bloke fights his way through the crowd, hauls the other girl off and helps Molly up. She was so grateful, you know? Crying and trying to be brave, so he makes a big fuss of her and says he’ll get her a drink. Took her off to the bar and got her the most ridiculous cocktail you ever saw - all little umbrellas and cherries and swizzle sticks. It was so completely over the top, it made Molly laugh. Then _he_ noticed she was bleeding a bit here-” Emma touches a finger to her cheekbone. “-and said he had plasters in his office.”

“He took her to his office?” Sherlock asks. “Alone? You didn’t go with her?”

“I know,” Rachel says miserably, shaking her head. “But we’d been drinking, and sometimes you have to wait for ages in the cold for a taxi … and, well, we needed the loo, okay? And besides, Molly was giving us the Look.”

Sherlock is puzzled. “The look?”

“Ah, the Look,” John nods.

“John?”

John gives a quick demonstration: opens his eyes wide, darts his gaze pointedly and repeatedly to one side and wiggles his eyebrows meaningfully.

(Oh.)

“Anyway,” Rachel goes on, “when we came out again, there was no sign of Molly or him. We asked at the desk and the girl told us Mark Woodley had taken her home himself. We wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but someone overheard his name and muttered something like ‘poor girl’, and then, this morning, when we still hadn’t even had a text from Molly - because she _always_ tells us about it the first chance she gets whenever she meets someone she likes - we started to get worried.”

It doesn’t sound good, but there’s something about the story that’s not right. Even if Sherlock can’t yet put his finger on it.

“Can you remember this person on the desk? What they looked like?”

“A blond girl,” Emma says. “Short. Curly hair. But she was behind the bar earlier, so I think they swap about a bit?”

“Do they? Good. John, we need to go. To Eden. Now.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Eden has changed surprisingly little in the past five years, Sherlock discovers. It’s been updated - all black and chrome from the outside now, instead of the old garish neon signs proclaiming Girls!Girls!Girls! - but it still oozes carnality, even out here on the street, still promises forbidden fruit and damnation.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Ready?”

Tearing his attention away from a glossy poster of a leather-clad woman wearing impossibly high heels, John nods. “As ready I’ll ever be.” He’s not nervous, but he’s wary, soldierly reflexes on high alert, eyes and ears wide open, taking everything in. “What are we doing here, again?”

“There’s something about Emma Fowler’s story that isn’t quite right.”

“You think she was lying?”

“No. I think she was telling us the absolute truth. But there’s something missing. Something wrong. I can feel it. So we’re going to inside and mingle. See if we can find this blond woman and find out if she knows anything useful.”

John nods his approval. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Just one thing, John-” Sherlock tells him, as they mount the steps. “Stay close.”

Sherlock would laugh at the admission charge (thirty quid each at _lunchtime_!) if he weren’t wary too. The walls may have been redecorated, but the place is still full of memories, none of them good and the inch-long scar on his side, just below his ribcage, starts to throb as he remembers the bite of the blade that made it. Somehow it managed to miss his liver, and the man charged for the attack was described as a freelance drug-dealer but Sherlock knew it was a warning from Woodley. A warning he should have seen coming ...

“Uh, Sherlock,” John says, pulling Sherlock’s attention back to the present. “Looks like we’ve chosen an interesting time to visit.”

Looking beyond the reception desk, and into the body of the club, Sherlock sees what he means. Apart from the waitresses and barmaids, there’s not a single woman in the place, and the stage, which always used to be occupied by pole dancers, or raucous bands, has been taken over by an elderly gentleman in a tuxedo, playing lushly romantic tunes on a gleaming grand piano to a dance-floor full of sensually swaying male couples. Standing around the walls, there are numerous young men, groomed and polished, and very obviously for hire.

“They’re playing our tune,” John mutters, as the music changes. “ _Fools rush in_.”

“In which case, I suppose we should,” Sherlock nods, after taking a moment to acclimatize. “Shall we?” And he holds out a hand to John in invitation.

John stares at it. Then at the dance floor. And then at Sherlock’s face. “What?” he says. “You? _You_ can dance? Like that?”

“Of course, I can,” Sherlock sniffs. “A five-grand a term education in the early nineties came with all sorts of added extras.”

“Are you any good?” John asks, still dubious.

“Very.”

“You’d better be,” John says, finally taking Sherlock’s hand. “Because, I’m telling you, mate - I don’t have a clue about this stuff.”

“Just follow my lead,” Sherlock advises, pulling him close, and placing a hand on the small of his back, “and you’ll be fine.”

“So, you’re saying there’s no chance of me being tied up by Chinese acrobats or forced into a coatful of explosives, then?” John scoffs. “Bloody hell, Sherlock - the things you get me into.”

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock says fondly. (Things are better holding John. Even this place seems less dangerous.) “You love it.”

John is hopeless, Sherlock soon discovers. ‘Two left feet’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. He’s thinking too much, watching other people and trying to copy them, instead of relaxing into Sherlock’s flow. There’s only one thing for it, Sherlock decides, after John treads on his toes for a third time. It’s something he’s been dying to do all morning anyway, but the timing or the mood was never right. Now, as the music rises in a crescendo, he whirls John round, and when it reaches a climax, he dips him sharply backwards, and swoops down to kiss him whilst whilst he’s off-balance and vulnerable. He feels John wobble, trying not to fall over, and then John is clinging to him, kissing him back for all he’s worth.

“Let. Me. Lead,” Sherlock says again, when they have to break for air. “Or we’re going to end up breaking something.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do,” John protests, “but it’s harder than you think - letting someone else take over.”

Sherlock leans in again, until his mouth is against John’s ear. “You didn’t seem to have any trouble with it last night.”

The effect his words have on John’s body is astonishing. He stops resisting, stops trying to make sense of the dance (a simple waltz) and when Sherlock steps forward, he allows himself to be pushed smoothly back - one step, two - then to be drawn close again as Sherlock turns. And now Sherlock himself is in real trouble. The thigh on thigh contact, John’s sudden fluidity, and the way he’s looking up at Sherlock, lips parted and eyes swimming with desire, sends all Sherlock’s blood rushing to his cock. This time yesterday, he’d never had sex; this time today, he wants it _now_ , right here on the dance floor and never mind how many people might be watching.

“Sherlock?” John asks, breathlessly. “What is it?”

Sherlock swallows. “Nothing. I just …” And he steps back a fraction, so they’re no longer pressed up against one another quite so tightly.

“Yeah,” John nods, ruefully, looking down at his own groin. “Me too. No wonder they call that programme ‘Come Dancing’.”

“ ‘ _Strictly_ Come Dancing’,” Sherlock corrects him, with a wicked smile. It makes John laugh, and the sound of John laughing again is so beautiful, that Sherlock laughs too, out of the pure happiness of the moment.

“Ah, young love,” someone to their left sighs.

Sherlock turns to see a heavy-set, puffy-faced man in his early forties, grinning at him. The man - who’s wearing far more eye make-up than skin as old as his can get away with - turns to his partner - a dark and slender twenty-year old - and says, “See, _that_ ’s what I’m looking for, Diego. Not a hundred and one things to do with a cock ring. Now, run along, there’s a good boy.” And he makes shooing motions with a beautifully manicured hand.

With a toss of his head, Diego stalks away, and rejoins his fellow rent-boys lining the walls. Diego’s erstwhile partner stays where he is, still smiling, as he looks Sherlock and John up and down. “You’re new here,” he says - a statement, not a question.

“Which,” Sherlock drawls, draping an arm around John’s shoulders, as if he does so every day (it feels good, a declaration of ownership), “must mean you’re not.”

“Oh goodness, no! I’m a bit of a regular, I’m afraid. Still waiting for that special someone, you see. And making do with gifted toy boys in the meantime. But couples like you - well, you give a person hope. I’m Justin, by the way. Can I get you a drink?”

“No, allow me,” Sherlock replies, “and then, since you’re a regular, you can tell us all about this place.”

As in the past, drinks are ordered by occupying one of the tables around the dance floor. A waitress materializes instantly out of nowhere, bearing a wine list. Sherlock and John opt for mineral water, but Justin chooses a spritzer. On top of the drinks Sherlock can already smell on his breath, he hopes it will make him talkative on the subject of what happened last night.

However, when their drinks are served, it’s by a different waitress. She’s short, and blond, with curly hair, and a good enough match for Emma’s description of the woman on reception last night for Sherlock to take longer than he needs to find his wallet and then to take out the appropriate notes, so that he can ask casually, “So, you work lunchtimes as well as evenings?”

“Sometimes,” the girl says slowly, suspiciously. “Why?”

“I wondered if you were working last night.”

The girl clutches her tray to her breast, like a shield and her eyes dart around the room. (The question has made her nervous.) “Are you from the police?”

“No, nothing like that,” John hurries to reassure her. “It’s just that a friend of our was here last night and we were hoping that perhaps you’d seen her? About five foot three, slim, with long brown hair? She was here with a couple of friends - a redhead and a girl with black hair and glasses?”

The waitress shakes her head (too soon, too quickly) and she hurries away, without waiting for a tip.

“A girl, huh?” Justin remarks, sipping his drink. “Can’t help you there, I’m afraid.”

Across the room, near the bar, Sherlock sees the waitress talking urgently with a man whose demeanour declares him a fellow employee, though one far superior in rank. A moment later, the man is walking purposefully over.

“Never mind,” Sherlock tells Justin. “Here comes a man who can.”

Justin follows Sherlock’s gaze idly but as soon as his eyes fall on the tall, toned figure of the young man approaching them, he jumps to his feet. “Ah! I’ve just remembered. I’m meeting someone,” he says. “Bye - and thanks for the drink!” He leaves it, barely touched, and disappears in the direction of the toilets.

“Woodley?” John asks, the tension returning to his body, as his senses spring to attention.

“No,” Sherlock says. “A minion.” (Woodley is older, better dressed, and exudes menace.)

“Gentlemen,” the minion says, inclining his head deferentially. “James Hatch, club manager at your service. How can I be of help? Amanda tells me you were enquiring about a friend.” His manner is smooth, polite, and professional. (Woodley’s PR man?)

“Yes,” John confirms, pulling a photograph of Molly from his jacket pocket and handing it over. “We wondered if you’d seen this woman.”

Hatch is well practised at lying when he needs to, Sherlock is sure, but there are certain hard-to-conceal involuntary actions provoked by recognition and the minion immediately displays all of them: an eyebrow flash, a slight recoiling of the upper body, tightening of the muscles at the corners of the mouth. “No, I’ve -” he begins, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“Don’t be tedious, Mr Hatch. You’ve seen her before.”

Hatch looks surprised for a split second, and then he does something very _not_ tedious. He plasters on a wide, fake smile, and shakes his head emphatically, but at the same time, through his grin, says in a low strained voice, “You’re right. She was here. But you didn’t hear it from me, right? The boss would kill me if he found out.”

“And yet you’re telling us anyway,” Sherlock observes. “How very public spirited of you.”

“Look, I don’t want any trouble, all right?” Hatch explains. “And there’s nothing to worry about. She’s all right, I swear to you.”

“How can you possibly know that?” John demands, unconvinced. “She hasn’t been home and she’s not answering her phone.”

Hatch grimaces, as if weighing up the pros and cons of sharing what he knows. “Because,” he says, at last, “I know where she is, right? The boss took a bit of a shine to her, and her to him. He saved her from a cat-fight, so he got the knight in shining armour treatment. Anyway, his wife’s out of town and he … well, he took her home.”

Sherlock clenches his fists in triumph: this is exactly what he was expecting, and it confirms everything Lestrade said, everything Molly’s friends said - and yet some part of him was still hoping it wasn’t true. (This is how Woodley works. He gets you when you’re vulnerable. Pretends to be your friend.) He gets to his feet. “Thank you, Mr Hatch,” he says coldly. “You’ve been very helpful. Come on, John - we’re leaving.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

The prospect of confronting Woodley on his home ground is doing horrible things to Sherlock’s insides, twisting them into nervous, cramping coils. Going to Eden was bad enough, but at least it was a public place, with a sizeable number of independent witnesses. Woodley’s house (which now appears to be in St Albans, according to the information Lestrade gave John) is another matter entirely. Sherlock checks the address against his maps app: the house is substantial, at the end of a long, lonely road and set in its own grounds.

(Damn.)

“So,” John says, as their cab leaves the A406 and joins the M1, slipping in neatly between an articulated lorry and a Range Rover towing a trailer, “d’you want to tell me how you know Woodley?”

“About as much as you seem to want to tell me about your friend Jenkins,” Sherlock replies, avoiding eye contact. (It’s all too humiliating.) (And a long time ago.) (And none of John’s business.)

“Oh, I see,” John murmurs, and out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees him nod sagely. “It’s like that, is it?”

“Like what?” Sherlock demands, feeling cornered.

“You have a history with him. A bad one.”

“Brilliant, John. You’re on fire.”

John leans forward in his seat and slides closed the glass soundproofing panel behind the driver’s head. “You could just tell me, you know,” he says, his voice so reasonable and so kind, that it makes Sherlock want to scream. “Unless you don’t trust me.”

“Trust goes both ways, John,” Sherlock counters, because although he trusts John _absolutely_ with his life, he’s far less confident about trusting him with his weakness and failures. (Because John wants Strong and In Control.) “You could have told me about Jenkins weeks ago.”

John frowns. “You don’t think I trust you?” he asks. (He’s hurt, disappointed.) “Seriously? After last night?”

Sherlock squirms inwardly. There’s so much he doesn’t know. So much he doesn’t understand when it comes to sex and relationships. What’s normal, what’s not. What it all means, beyond the brain-dissolving physical pleasure of it. He shrugs, helplessly, and shakes his head.

“Oh,” John says, blinking hard. “You think-” He pauses, and licks his lips. “- you think I just like pain.”

“Well, all the available evidence certainly points that way,” Sherlock snaps, loathing this feeling of blundering around, clueless, “and I base my theories on evidence: last night, Jenkins. _You’ve_ got a history too, remember. For god’s sake - you took a job where you’d get _shot_ at. ” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Sherlock wishes he hadn’t said them but it’s too late.

John’s face darkens. “Don’t you dare …” he begins but he can’t finish.

“John-”

“Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut up. Because if you say another word, I’m going to end up punching you.”

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

Half an hour later, as their taxi reaches the very edge of town where neat streets and houses give way to red soil and Hertfordshire farms, Sherlock wishes they were arriving at Woodley’s place in a better mood with each other - until it occurs to him that John’s hostility might have an up-side: if he and John are not obviously _together_ , it will keep John safe.

The cab swings onto a single track road, flanked on one side by a beech hedge to which last year’s leaves are still clinging, dry and coppery, and by a clear, fast-running stream on the other. Ahead of them, a brick wall draped with ivy comes into view, and beyond it, the tall chimneys and clay roof tiles of what once must have been a manor house.

The cab pulls up outside of electric gates and, after telling the driver to wait, Sherlock and John step out into bright sunshine - Sherlock cautiously and John still exuding quiet fury. The gates are locked, and somewhere, not far away, a couple of large dogs are barking. (So much for any hope of having a quiet snoop about first.)

Sherlock presses a button on the gatepost panel. There’s no answer, but after a few minutes, the gates open, slowly and silently.

“That was easier than I expected,” John comments, with a little frown and a backward glance, as they walk through and onto a well-worn flagstone driveway. “Didn’t think Woodley would be very keen on receiving visitors at the moment.”

Sherlock agrees, but doesn’t answer. He’s too busy memorizing the layout of the house: the number and type of doors, the position and angle of the security lights, the size and level of the windows, the line of sight from each of them. (The floor plan is complicated, the essentially rectangular build made more complex by an extension.)

The front of the house is of plain red brick, the front door and window frames painted white. It’s a million miles away from the squalid little semi Woodley used to call home in Hackney. (Business must have been good.) (Woodley’s going for a different image now. Upmarket and respectable.)

As they get nearer, the sound of barking grows louder. It’s coming from two dogs - hefty Rottweilers - tethered to a couple of hooks on a low wall near the house, their chains just long enough to allow them to menace people approaching the front door, but too short to allow them to actually bite them. Even now, they’re straining against their chains, loose jowls frothy with drool, as they work themselves into a frenzy of rage at the sight of strangers.

“Don’t worry,” a horribly familiar voice says. “They won’t hurt you. Much.”

“How very reassuring,” Sherlock replies, hoping - as he turns to face Woodley for the first time in years - that he sounds cooler than he feels.

Woodley is standing in his front doorway, all but filling it. He’s heavier than Sherlock remembers, squarer too, but still powerful. He strides over, flat feet slapping heavily against the paving stones.

Sherlock stands his ground. He’s taller than Woodley by a good three inches and, with a man like Woodley - the alpha dog of every pack he’s ever run with - every advantage, physical as well as intellectual, counts. Sherlock raises his chin and looks down into brown eyes that are as shuttered and cold as John’s are open and warm.

“Well, well,” Woodley says, softly, “Sherlock Holmes. Never thought I’d be seeing _you_ again.”

“It wasn’t exactly top of my to-do list either,” Sherlock replies, as Woodley starts to prowl a wider circle, one which now encompasses John too.

“What’ve we got here?” Woodley asks, eyeing John up and down. “Friend of yours?”

“A _colleague_ ,” Sherlock says hastily. (Too hastily.)

John (of course) is completely unfazed. “John Watson,” he says, smiling. “Captain John Watson.”

“Captain, eh?” Woodley scratches the greying stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Well, _Captain_ , you and Sherlock better come on inside - before the neighbours start griping about me lowering the tone, letting undesirables hang about on my doorstep.” And he gestures them towards the open front door with a wide sweep of his arm.

It’s what they’re here for - to search the house for Molly - but even so, a chill goes up Sherlock’s spine as he follows John inside, and his trepidation only grows worse when he hears Woodley close the door behind them. He’s been locked in a room by Woodley before, and it didn’t end well. He should never have brought John here. Should have forced him to stay in Baker Street, regardless of how angry it might have made him.

Woodley leads them through a bright sitting room, where the dark lines of exposed timbers and a black marble fireplace heighten the general airiness created by white walls and sofas, and into a vast modern kitchen that’s all polished surfaces and harsh strip lighting.

“Take a seat,” Woodley orders, as he opens a cupboard to take out an almost full bottle of vodka and three lead crystal glasses. Insisting that somewhere in the world the sun must have dipped below the yardarm even if it’s only three in the afternoon in St Albans, he pours out three insanely large measures and finishes them off with a slice of lemon, cut fresh, using a menacingly sharp kitchen knife. He sets the drinks in front of John and Sherlock like a challenge, but his voice is silkily smooth as he says, “Now, why don’t you tell me what this is all about? Can’t be drugs, after all these years, can it? Would’ve thought you’d put all that behind you by now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock knows that John knows he hasn’t always been clean, but having his past referred to quite so baldly is still shaming, and he bristles with the need to point out that it was Woodley who set him on that particular path in the first place - and who kept him from leaving it on more than one occasion - but he swallows it down, along with a fiery mouthful of vodka.

“Business,” he says, once he’s mastered his annoyance. “I’m here on business.”

“Really?” Woodley asks, raising an eyebrow. “Yours or mine?”

“Both. I’m looking for a girl.”

“Girl? You?” Woodley does a double-take, then laughs uproariously, showing gold fillings and unnaturally white teeth. “Sorry, sorry,” he gasps when his laughter finally subsides. “Just never thought-”

“A _missing_ girl,” Sherlock interrupts. “Molly Hooper. John - show him the photograph.”

Using John’s first name was a mistake: a light comes on instantly in Woodley’s eyes, but he doesn’t say anything, just accepts the photograph and makes a show of examining it carefully. After a while, however, he hands it back, shaking his head. “Nope. Don’t know her.”

John frowns and purses his lips. “That’s funny,” he says. “We were told you spent a fair bit of last night with her. And that afterwards, you drove her home.”

Woodley slaps a hand down on the table, making John’s untouched drink jump, and he leans in. “Told by who?”

“By whom,” Sherlock corrects automatically.

Woodley’s head snaps around. “Are you tryin’ to be clever?”

“I don’t need to try,” Sherlock shoots back, delighted to see Woodley rattled at last.

“Yes, thank you. Never mind the grammar lesson,” John mutters, with a weary eye-roll. “We just want to find Molly. So if you know anything, Mr Woodley, I’d advise you to tell us now and save yourself a great deal of trouble.” He smiles sweetly. “After all, I’m sure you don’t want a squad of police cars parked out in the drive, annoying the neighbours, or a dozen burly officers ransacking your lovely home, do you?”

Woodley’s mouth opens and closes, and Sherlock has to clench his jaw to stop himself beaming with pride. (John is constantly surprising.) (He just _threatened_ Woodley.) (Which was stupid and dangerous, but-)

“All right,” Woodley says at last. “You wanna search the place? Come on, then. Get up and do it.” And he pulls the chair out so roughly from under John, that Sherlock can’t help wincing. Even though John himself betrays no sign of discomfort, Woodley sees Sherlock’s reaction and when his gaze meets Sherlock’s, there’s a knowing half-smile pulling at his lips.

“Right, boys,” Woodley says, leaning a little too heavily on the word ‘boys’, “let me give you the tour.”

If Sherlock didn’t know Woodley better, he might be tempted to believe this show of openness proof that Woodley really doesn’t have any idea what happened to Molly. But Sherlock _does_ know him. Too well. Woodley is an inveterate and skilful liar, as practised at controlling his own body language as he is at reading that of others. Even so, Sherlock can’t seem to shake a small itch of doubt: there’s something about all this that just doesn’t add up.

Under Woodley’s watchful eye, they progress through the kitchen into a dining room, then a utility room. Woodley leaves no door unopened, even when the space behind it is obviously too small to hide even someone of Molly’s diminutive stature. Passing through the kitchen again, Woodley insists that they look inside the walk-in larder, and the refrigerator, and a tall cabinet full of crockery. His brazen confidence is chafing at Sherlock’s patience, but John just marches on calmly, setting a good example, and so Sherlock follows him without comment.

Beyond the sitting room, on the opposite side of the hallway through which they first entered, there’s a large drawing room, dominated by a grand piano. It’s a Blüthner, like Mother’s - and for a split second, Sherlock imagines her sitting there, playing something wistful, her melancholy air understandable now in a way it never was to his younger self. He remembers sitting on the stool beside her when he was very young, and the way she’d break off from playing every now and then to tousle his hair, or kiss the top of his head. But he remembers too, the day all that stopped - the kissing, the embraces, the touching of any kind. The day he started being ashamed.

Sherlock forces the memories back into the dark recesses of his brain they sprang from. Emotions are not an advantage. Success - _safety_ \- lies in facts, in data. He looks around. There are no signs of a struggle: no wrinkles in the Persian rug that might have been caused by a resisting heel digging in, no petals shaken loose from the past-their-prime Asiatic lilies on the side table. Nothing overturned, nothing out of place. (Is it all too tidy?) (Have the cleaners been in?) (No, those flowers would have been replaced.)

The first floor of the house now thoroughly searched, they head upstairs.

The first two rooms clearly haven’t been used recently. (And their neutral colours and uncluttered surfaces indicate they’re guests rooms.) At Woodley’s insistence, Sherlock looks inside the wardrobes and under the beds, but there’s nothing useful to be seen. A search of the bathroom opposite them is equally fruitless.

They walk further down the hallway and Woodley opens another door.

Bright colours assault Sherlock from all sides: plastic in every shade of the rainbow and a few more besides. Fake fur, monstrous claws and teeth. A castle, complete with knights and a dragon. A garage with a dozen shiny metal cars. (A child’s room.) (Woodley has _children_ now?)

Surveying the scene with a mix of pride and fondness, Woodley urges John to open the door of the cupboard he’s standing next to, and instantly, John is lost in an avalanche of cuddly toys - bears, monkey, dinosaurs and god knows what else. It makes him jump but once the initial shock passes, he laughs and sets about helping Woodley shove the toys back inside the cupboard. It’s a gesture, a little kindness, so perfectly John it makes Sherlock’s heart twist in his chest. (Oh, _John_.) Of course, Woodley chooses that exact moment to look in Sherlock’s direction and his smirk is sickening.

The next room is another child’s bedroom. “Me little girl’s room,” Woodley says, opening the door with a flourish. “My little angel’s.” His voice softer than Sherlock would ever have believed possible, and his eyes bright with a sheen that, were Woodley anyone else, might be tears. He steps aside, almost reverently, and waves Sherlock in.

Whereas the first child’s room was a kaleidoscope of colour, this one is all pink and glitter. Pink teddy bears, pink unicorns. Glittery shoes and twinkly necklaces. Every last item neatly lined up and on display. The girliest place Sherlock has ever seen. He’s about to turn around and walk right back out again when Woodley stoops down to retrieve something from the floor and, as Sherlock watches, he places the item on his daughter's Barbie dressing table amongst the combs and hairbrushes, the nail varnish bottles and tiaras. (It's an ear-ring.) (A single ear-ring.) (A big, diamante hoop, under a diamante stud.) Sherlock feels a rush of excitement. (It looks like one of _Molly’s_ …)

Examining it more closely would give the game away, but Sherlock is now utterly convinced Molly Hooper has been here. Proof - he just needs proof.

At last, they come to the final door. Woodley opens it, triumphantly (he thinks he’s in the clear).

This room is the master bedroom: mirrored wardrobes, a dressing table, a flat-screen TV mounted on one wall … and an enormous bed. Sherlock blinks at it. There are … little red ribbons … dangling from the cross-rails of the brass frame, above the pillows. Sherlock tries not to let his mind go there, but it’s too late: he’s already picturing John lying naked on that pale pink, silk bedspread, his wrists bound by those ribbons. Already hearing him moan. Already feeling him move …

“Nice arse.” The sound of Woodley’s voice breaking into such a fantasy comes as a horrible, nauseating shock. Sherlock whirls around to look at him.

Woodley nods towards John, who’s dropped to his hands and knees to peer under the bed. “Lucky for you,” he says, with an evil leer, “I’m a family man. Otherwise I might go for a bit of that too. What’s he like starkers, then, eh?”

Possessive, protective rage flares in Sherlock’s chest (How dare he? How dare Woodley say things like that? As if John were a _thing_ , to be leered at and gloated over) and for a moment, the room spins, as Sherlock fights the urge to smack him hard in his coarse, ugly face (and to hell with the consequences). However, when he recalls how bad those consequences can be, he quickly reins himself in. It’s his own fault anyway. He should never had allowed John to come here. He can’t think straight with him in the room. Sherlock pushes past the still-gloating Woodley, and goes out into the hallway to clear his head.

And that’s when he sees it: on the elaborately carved, ebony sideboard, stands a large blue and white china bowl, casting a large elliptical shadow - and in the shadow, almost completely out of sight, there’s a little circle of brown, fabric-covered elastic. The hairs on Sherlock’s arms stand up on end and his heart beats faster. Did Woodley see him notice it? Has Woodley seen it too? (No, Woodley is still in the bedroom, talking to John.) Keeping his eyes fixed on them, Sherlock steps back, feeling behind him for the top of the sideboard. His fingers find wax-polished wood, then a cool sweep of glazed pottery, and then - at last - jersey and elastane. He closes his hand around it, and slips it quickly into a pocket, just as Woodley and John exit the master bedroom. (It’s one of the things Molly uses to tie her hair back.) (There’s a strand of hair on it: DNA evidence.) (It can’t have fallen _under_ that bowl.) (It must have been _placed_ there.) (Molly _planted_ it there.) (Clever girl!)

“Satisfied?” Woodley demands. “I _told_ you she wasn’t here, didn’t I?”

“Indeed, you did,” Sherlock agrees.

“And there’s no sign of her, is there?” Woodley persists, labouring the point.

“It would appear not,” Sherlock lies, eager to be get back to Scotland Yard and present his evidence to Lestrade. “Come on, John. We’re going.”

John tips his head to one side (he’s surprised to be leaving so suddenly) but when Sherlock opens his eyes wider at him, signalling Don’t-Ask, John bites back any questions he might have been about to ask and follows him downstairs.

Unfortunately, John’s general politeness won’t let him leave without a few words, and as Woodley sees them out of the door, he clears his throat and offers Woodley a hand, saying, “Well, then, uh - good-bye Mr Woodley, and thank you for your help.”

Woodley seizes John’s hand, and yanks him closer. “Tell you what,” he says softly, ignoring John and looking Sherlock in the eye instead, “you can thank me properly by never showing your faces around here again - either of you. Because - god ‘elp me, Sherlock - if you do, I’m gonna hand your little bum-chum here over to people who’ll make sure he’s never any good to you again.”

There’s a second or two before the threat sinks in, and then everything seems to run in slow-motion. Sherlock sees John’s eyes narrow, and his nostrils flare. Sees his right foot step back and his right shoulder drop. A moment later, John’s body is twisting at the waist, his right hand coming up, already balled into a fist-

(Oh god, no! He’s going to punch Woodley!)

Sherlock lunges forward and, as John draws his arm back, taking aim, he grabs it, dragging John back. “ _Don’t_ ,” he growls into John’s ear, as he struggles against him. “We’re leaving.” And, transferring his grip to John’s elbow, he puts his other hand between John’s shoulder blades and propels him towards the gates.

Once they’re through, he lets go.

“Why did you stop me?” John mutters, brushing himself down in an attempt to recover some dignity. “Was that more of your misguided gallantry? I’m not a bloody _girl_ , Sherlock.”

“I know you’re not,” Sherlock assures him, “but, if you’d started a fight with him, you’d have lost.”

“Would I hell!” John scoffs. “I could have taken him. I was a soldier, remember?”

(John doesn’t understand.) Sherlock fixes him with a sharp look. “Would you have killed him?”

“What? No, of course not. I’d have given him a black eye, though.”

“Then you’d have lost,” Sherlock says again. “Because he’d have killed you for it.”

John stares at him. “What?”

Sherlock shrugs. “You don’t cross Woodley and come out unscathed, John. No-one does.”

John looks up at him, aghast. “Oh god, Sherlock,” he breathes, putting a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “What on earth did he do to you?”

Impatiently, Sherlock shakes him off (because sympathy from John about this is intolerable). “Nothing. He didn’t do _anything_. Shut up and get in the taxi.”

John’s worried expression doesn’t change, but at least he lets it drop and does as he’s told.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

After telling the cabbie to make for Scotland Yard, Sherlock recloses the panel behind him, thus shutting out the man’s questionable taste in music and the crackle of radio messages from control. For the first five miles or so, knowing that they’re putting more and more distance between themselves and Woodley gives the resulting quiet a nicely soothing quality, but as soon as they hit the M1, and the cab begins moving at a decent speed, Sherlock’s priorities shift, and his thoughts become far more occupied with how John is feeling than with worrying about Woodley.

He sneaks a look at him out of the corner of his eye. John is leaning against the door gazing out blankly out at the passing fields. (He’s not looking at them; he’s _thinking_.) (About Woodley, about Woodley’s threat. About being used as a bargaining chip.) (He’s thinking about last night too, about all the stupid things I’ve said about it since, and how I never tell him anything important … and jumping to all the wrong conclusions about how important he is.)

Sherlock swallows, and directs his gaze at the back of the cabbie’s head, because if John offers him a kind look, or a pitying one, he’ll never be able to say it.

“It’s not what _Woodley_ did to me; it’s what I did to myself.”

John doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, but a subtle change in the rhythm of his breathing and in the distribution of his weight on the seat tells Sherlock’s he’s listening, and listening intently.

Terrified now (what will John think? Oh, god, what will he think?), Sherlock forces himself to go on. “I was twenty-one, just out of university. My student years weren’t exactly happy ones but at least my mind was active. The courses were unbelievably dull, of course, and totally lacking in any kind of intellectual challenge but, with access to proper chemistry labs for the first time in my life, I found ways to occupy myself.”

For a brief moment, Sherlock is back in the second-year lab, the smell of sulfur half-choking him, but his heart soaring in triumph at another theory proved. His paper on the subject was published four months later, to mild academic interest and the contemptuous envy of his peers … He adjusts his seat-belt, takes a breath.

“After university, Mycroft wanted me to be boring and follow him into the Civil Service. I wanted to be a detective … There was someone in my year; I helped solve a problem for him. Well, for his father: he was being blackmailed … Anyway, the police wouldn’t have me. They were interested at first, and there was talk of fast-track training, that kind of thing, but you wouldn’t believe the amount of tedious nonsense they still expected me to endure …”

Sherlock feels John turn towards him, and hears the smile in his voice as he says, “You’d have made an absolutely _terrible_ policeman.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “But had I nothing to do. I was bored. Bored and desperate. I felt like I was suffocating. I’ll spare you the sordid details, but before long cigarettes and alcohol weren’t enough to make up for all the dullness and stupidity surrounding me.”

“You bought drugs from Woodley,” John says slowly, as if he can hardly bring himself to believe it.

Sherlock would give his right arm - his right frontal lobe even - to be able to deny it. He can’t. “Mycroft found out. _Naturally_. Gave me a stern talking-to and reminded me of my responsibilities.”

A little laugh escapes John. “I shouldn’t think that helped much.”

Sherlock finds himself smiling back. “No, it didn’t. But, after a while, taking coke got boring too and I decided to stop. Woodley had other ideas.”

“He forced it on you?”

Sherlock looks away again. Fiddles with a loose thread on the cab seat’s stitching, and wants to curl up and die. “He introduced me to something stronger.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” John says, the edges of his words suddenly crisp with anger. “I would kill him. _Will_ kill him. Happily. And I’ll sleep well afterwards too.”

“Mycroft tried again. He had me arrested.”

Sherlock daren’t look, but he imagines John is blinking in shock, then nodding his approval. (He’d probably have done the same, in Mycroft’s position.)

“It was Lestrade,” Sherlock continues, cringing at the memory. (There are better ways of meeting a future colleague than lying shit-faced in a filthy semi in Stoke Newington, with a tourniquet around your bicep and a needle hanging from a vein in your forearm.)

“Oh.”

“Just Lestrade, not Donovan - thank god - and, in exchange for letting me off with a caution, he talked me into helping him build a case against Woodley … It nearly worked. We were _this_ close, John!” Sherlock holds up a finger and thumb, no more than a hair’s breadth apart, then sighs. “It wasn’t close enough. He bought off witnesses, threatened people.”

“Yeah. He seems the type.”

“I avoided him for a while. Bought from other dealers, but Woodley was consolidating, building his empire. One day, my new supplier was gone; the next, I had to go back to Woodley.”

John doesn’t say anything, just sucks his teeth and grumbles low in his throat.

“Six months later, Lestrade called me in to help on another case. Looking back, it was probably at Mycroft’s behest, but my brother’s string-pulling worked. With something _interesting_ to do, I forced myself through four days of hell, and came out of them clean again. I reinterpreted the existing forensic evidence - evidence that Anderson had been floundering around with for weeks - and uncovered more, proving that the man who’d supposedly perished in a fire was in fact alive and well, and living under a new name he’d taken in order to inherit his own estate. He went to prison for six years, and the lawyer he’d attempted to frame walked free.”

“And I bet you did it from some tiny scrap of nothing everyone else overlooked.”

“Variations in handwriting isn’t a tiny scrap nothing, John,” Sherlock objects.

John laughs. “See? You’re amazing.”

Sherlock feels his cheeks grow warm at John’s praise, but almost immediately his heart sinks, because he hasn’t finished. Not yet. “I certainly thought so,” he admits. “I felt invincible. And the more cases I solved for Lestrade - the more it became obvious he _needed_ me - the more invincible I felt. So when Woodley bought Eden, and there were rumours about what he was using it for, I volunteered to go in, posing as a punter, to get Lestrade the information he needed …”

“And?”

“One of Woodley’s gang recognized me. He had a knife.” (If it hadn’t been for that knife, and the shock of the pain of it, things might have turned out differently.) (But there were four of them. And the room was soundproofed. Cheap carpet - on the floor, walls and ceiling. No windows. A thick door. Three bolts. A chair.) Sherlock closes his eyes and shudders, remembering the straps tightening around his arms and legs, and the sharp sting of the needle going in. The helpless euphoria that followed.

Eyes still closed, he presses his palms together and his forefingers to his lips. Usually, the pose is calming. (But there’s nothing usual about admitting to John Watson - doctor of medicine, war hero and all round good egg - that you’re weak and pathetic and not the man he wants you to be at all-)

“Sherlock?”

(In for a penny, in for a pound, as Mycroft would probably say. John might as well hear it all now.) “I started using again. It took me two years to realize it was dulling my wits, not sharpening them. In the end, my only option was to go to Mycroft. He … paid for a clinic.”

The silence that follows seems interminable and the only way Sherlock can bear it is by staring out of the window at passing road signs (J1, Brent Cross, North Circular, 1/2 mile.) (Distance markers: three lines, two lines, one.)

(Any minute now, John is going to say something understanding, something kind, and the world will end.)

But John doesn’t. Instead, as the taxi slows on the off-ramp approaching a roundabout, he undoes his seat belt and moves closer.

“I didn’t tell you about Jenkins because he wasn’t important,” he murmurs, taking Sherlock’s hand and caressing his fingers.

Sherlock very nearly yanks his hand away again. (Don’t lie to me, John! Not now. _Please_.) “Mycroft’s file says otherwise.”

“Mycroft’s file is wrong,” John replies, and lifting Sherlock’s hand to his mouth, he kisses his fingertips, one by one.

The feel of John’s lips is electric, shortening Sherlock’s breaths, and making his heart beat faster. (Fingertips are oversupplied with nerve endings. Merkel cells, Meissner’s corpuscles. Hundreds of them, in dense clusters, and each one of them sensitive to even the lightest touch.)

“It says… The file says you have trust issues.”

“Ah, well, it’s right there,” John agrees cheerfully, and he sucks the whole of Sherlock’s forefinger into his mouth, rolling his tongue around it in such an obscenely suggestive way that Sherlock has to clench his jaw to stop himself from moaning. (Because if there’s anywhere more supplied with Merkel cells and Meissner’s corpuscles than a fingertip - to say nothing of Kraus end-bulbs and Pacinian corpuscles - it’s the genitals.) Unable to stop himself from imagining how John’s mouth might feel _there_ , in a few short heartbeats, Sherlock’s hard.

“When we were leaving Heathcote-Vane’s,” he manages (somehow) (at last) (despite the warm slide of John’s lips and his wickedly hollowed cheeks), “you said … you said you didn’t sleep with him. With Jenkins.”

John lets the finger slip from his mouth with a little popping sound. (It feels suddenly cold, and very wet.) “I didn’t. I thought I wanted to. At first. I’d just joined up. He was my commanding officer and I couldn’t believe it when he seemed interested in me.”

(Of course he was interested! Look at you. You’re perfect.)

“I mean,” John goes on, “he was tall, dark and handsome, fit and strong - and he seemed to know everything. I was completely in awe of him.”

Sherlock nods, even as jealousy stabs at his gut even more sharply than that blade did, years ago. (John clearly has a type.) (Is that what I am? His _type_?)

Apparently reading his mind, John smiles. “No. _No_. He was nothing like you. _You_ say exactly what you’re thinking, even when you really shouldn’t, whereas he … he was a liar. Married. With kids.”

A part of Sherlock wants to hunt the man down and rip his intestines out for hurting John, but mostly he wants to shower him with gifts for having ever been stupid enough to let John go. “So what did you do with him? If you didn’t sleep with him?”

“Oh, you know …” John raises his eyebrows meaningfully. (No, John, I really don’t. That’s why I’m asking.) “Wanked each other off. Gave each other blow jobs.”

Sherlock swallows. He’s already hard from John sucking on his finger, and from his own lascivious little fantasy: hearing John talk about … talking about having _a cock in his mouth_ is too much.

“It’s not that I was a virgin,” John goes on, oblivious. “Far from it. I’d had loads of girlfriends, but I’d never done much with a bloke before. So when Tim - Jenkin’s first name was Tim - when he wanted to go the whole hog, I wasn’t sure.”

Not trusting himself to speak, Sherlock simply nods.

“He told me I needed to relax. Let go. Let him take charge - but I’ve never been very good at that.” John laughs in self-deprecation. “Too used to looking after people, I suppose - Harry, my parents, my patients.”

The memory of John, naked, arms braced against the wall, surfaces again in Sherlock’s mind, causing another southward rush of blood. “You let _me_. Take charge.”

“Yeah, I do, don’t I?” John smiles. “I wonder why that is.”

It feels like he’s saying something hugely important. Sherlock’s whole body knows it - his heart, his lungs, his blood, and his cock. His brain, however, is struggling. “You don’t know?”

John laughs again, and moves closer still, until his thigh is pressed against Sherlock’s. “Oh, _I_ know. The question is whether you do.”

Sherlock hasn’t a clue. The only working theory he can come up with is that John likes tall and dark, and clever and domineering - but it doesn’t seem enough. To cover his confusion, he returns hastily to the subject of Jenkins. “There was something else with Jenkins. Mycroft would never have heard his name if all the two of you had done was grope each other.”

John grimaces. “There was, uh, a bit of an incident. He got me drunk. Astonishingly, incredibly drunk. And then he, er, tied me up and tried to convince me.”

Sherlock shivers, for a moment smelling salt and tasting sand. “Bastard.”

“Luckily, there was a fire drill. When we didn’t respond to the alarm, one of the men got sent to knock us up. Mind you, when I say ‘luckily’, what I actually mean is that it was _toe-curlingly humiliating_. I just thank god I still had my trousers on. Anyway, Tim spun the man a story about my having trust issues, and how he was trying a desensitization technique he’d learnt on an exchange tour with the German military - and that’s what went in the report.”

“And you didn’t contradict him?”

John shakes his head. “By that point, I just wanted to get the hell out of there. And I didn’t want to be thrown out of the army for an ‘inappropriate relationship’.”

“You mean they actually believed his story?” Sherlock asks, incredulous.

John shrugs. “The private who burst in on us was just a raw recruit - a kid with no experience of anything. And, higher up, I think they were desperate to keep me. If I wasn’t complaining, then it was fine by them. Though it obviously must have gone on my record for Mycroft to know about it.”

“But you do have trust issues?”

“Are you kidding? With _my_ family? After Tim bloody Jenkins? After getting _shot_? Of course I do.”

Sherlock is silent for a long time. Then he takes John’s face between his hands and kisses him. “Thank you.”

John smiles. “You’re welcome. Now, put me down. We’ve got work to do.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

The entrance to Lestrade’s office is blocked by Sally Donovan, exiting it with an armful of files. On seeing Sherlock, she stops dead in her tracks and demands, “What are _you_ doing here, freak?”

“As ever, Sally,” Sherlock purrs, bowing his head in mock courtesy, “I’m here to help.”

Sally snorts and her lip curls. “You? Help? How exactly d’you think _you_ can-”

“Okay, Donovan,” Lestrade interrupts. “That’ll do. Let him in.”

Reluctantly, resentfully, Donovan clears the doorway, though the look she gives Sherlock is one of pure contempt.

He strides past her with a triumphant smirk.

“Well?” Lestrade urges. “Have you got any news for me?”

“A little,” Sherlock admits, drawing it out, because this is the best bit - the doing things other people can’t or won’t, and dazzling them with the results. He turns the hair tie over in his pocket, looking forward to the moment he’ll produce it with a flourish.

A cough and a frown from John tells him that John not only knows he’s putting on a show, but also that he disapproves. (Oh god, yes - _Molly_.)

“The manager at Eden confirmed Molly’s friends’ story: Woodley took her back to his place. We went to see him.”

“Guv!” Donovan exclaims. “What about tonight? The Chief Con-”

Lestrade raises a silencing hand. “It wasn’t official.” He pauses. “You didn’t tell him it was official, did you?”

“Relax,” Sherlock says with a chuckle. “We told him we were friends of hers.” (Not strictly the truth, but Lestrade will never know.) “And he kindly showed us around his house - every nook and cranny of it - to prove she wasn’t there.”

Lestrade purses his lips. “And she wasn’t?”

John sighs and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “No sign of her.”

(This is it! The _moment_.) “Actually, John, there was.”

John looks stunned, then impressed, then pleased - then vaguely disapproving again. “You didn’t say.”

“There wasn’t time. But I found this.” Sherlock whisks the hair tie from his pocket and presents it to Lestrade on an upturned palm.

Lestrade looks at it dubiously. “A scrunchie?” (Oh! So _that’s_ what they’re called.) “It’s not much, is it? I mean, it’s not even distinctive - just plain brown.”

“Molly wears _plain brown scrunchies_ ,” Sherlock replies, impatiently. “And look - strands of hair. _Brown_ stands of hair.”

Lestrade takes the scrunchie and holds it up to the light. He nods. “Yeah. I see them. But it’s not enough to get me a warrant.”

“DNA!” Sherlock cries. “Run a DNA test!”

“Against _what_? It’s not like we’ve got her on file.”

Sherlock throws up his hands in exasperation. “I don’t know! Go to her flat, get her hairbrush! Don’t be an idiot, Lestrade: you employ Anderson for that.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll send someone round.”

“Good. The sooner, the better. How long will it take?”

Lestrade wrinkles his nose. “Eight - ten - hours, if we’re lucky. Assuming I can persuade upstairs that it’s urgent. Otherwise you’re talking five to ten days.”

“Persuade them.”

“I’ll do my best. I want her found as much as anybody …” Lestrade’s earnest tone tails off into something else. (Anxiety? Pain? Fear?) (Oh! He has _feelings_ for Molly!) (Despite the size of her mouth and breasts.) (Despite his experience of an unhappy marriage and a bitter, pending divorce.)

“Good,” Sherlock nods. He turns to go but, as he nears the door, he recalls something Donovan said, and pauses. “What’s happening tonight?”

Lestrade pulls his I’d-like-to-tell-you-but-it’s-more-than-my-job’s-worth face - the face that usually precedes him telling all anyway. This time, however, he shrugs apologetically, and shakes his head.

“Wait!” John holds up a finger, then presses it thoughtfully to his lips. “There’s a private party. At Eden. Invitation only.”

Amazed, delighted, proud - and only a little annoyed that he himself missed useful information that John picked up on, Sherlock rounds on Lestrade. “Is that what Donovan was talking about.”

Lestrade looks as uncomfortable as Sherlock has ever seen him. “Sort of. It’s related, okay? And if the op comes off, well, let’s just say, I won’t need to wait for a warrant to search his house because it’s already written. I can’t tell you any more than that. Not yet.”

“But you will?”

“As soon as I know anything, I swear.”

Sherlock nods, and turns to go, an alternative plan already taking shape in his mind.

Lestrade clears his throat. “D’you think she’s still alive?”

Sherlock considers. Woodley didn’t seem guilty, or overly troubled, and there were no signs of violence at his house. On the other hand, Woodley is a professional villain with a ruthless streak a mile wide. Oh the other-other hand, Molly was clever enough to leave evidence her presence in the house; she might have been clever enough to find somewhere to hide Woodley wouldn’t have thought of looking.

“I don’t know,” he says at last. “Let’s hope so.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

It’s already dark when they return to Baker Street, and 221B’s elderly central heating system is clanking and gurgling into life.

“Cuppa?” John asks, taking off his coat. “Damn it - we forgot to get milk.”

(A shopping trip is needed. Perfect!) Sherlock hustles John back into his coat. “Get two pints. And biscuits.” (John likes biscuits.) “And …” Sherlock hesitates. (It needs to be something John can’t get from Speedy’s. Something it’ll take him at least ten minutes to purchase.) A brain wave strikes. “Some of that nice bread from Marks and Spencer.” (Because the nearest M&S is at Baker Street station. It’ll be busy. There’ll be queues.) “Hurry up!”

“All right, all right,” John mutters. “I’m going. Although, you could always go yourself, you know.”

“Me?” Sherlock pulls a horrified face. He remembers last time. The place was a nightmare. Besides, he couldn’t care less about the shopping. The important thing is to get John out of the house. He opens the living room door again and pushes John through it, then hurries to his room, stripping out of his clothes as he goes. Paul Smith is all very well if you want to create an impression; if you want to pass unnoticed, you need something much less distinguished - something dark, and shapeless. Something drab. Sherlock digs out the pair of workman’s trousers he acquired for a case years ago, and pulls them on. A navy polo neck, and a dark green parka complete the look. His house-breaking rucksack is still leaning against his chest-of-drawers. (John must have put it there after the Stratton case.) Sherlock looks inside. At first glance,everything he needs - latex gloves, torch, gemmy, rope, Mycroft’s nifty little alarm-killing gadget - seems to be there, but a proper rummage through reveals that John has removed his gun. Sherlock runs upstairs and searches through John’s drawers but there’s nothing. (Literally, in some cases - a stomach churning reminder that when John moved out, he wasn’t planning on coming back).

Sherlock runs downstairs again, and into the sitting room.

Where he meets John.

“Forgot the cash you gave me was in my other jeans,” John explains with a silly-me grin, but when he sees what Sherlock’s wearing his grin freezes. “What are you doing?”

“Me? Nothing.” Sherlock crosses to his desk, finds his credit card and presses it into John’s hand. “Here. Take this. And get something nice for dinner. You must be starving.” Giving John a quick peck on the cheek, he tries to turn him back towards the door. He might as well be trying to shift a tree. John plants his feet and folds his arms, his expression implacable.

“I’ll ask you again,” he says in that deliberately calm voice he employs when he’s angry. “What. Are. You. Doing?”

“Lestrade’s taking too long. I’m going to get some more evidence.” (A near-truth is always more convincing than an outright lie.)

“You’re going to break into Molly’s?”

“Possibly.”

For a nanosecond, it seems John might buy it, but only for a nanosecond. John glares at him. “You’re going back to Woodley’s, aren’t you?”

“John-”

“You’re going back to Woodley’s and you were going to sneak out whilst I was doing the shopping-”

“John-”

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t knee you in the nuts right now.”

Sherlock tries a small smile. “Because you’ll never reach from that angle?”

“Ha, bloody, ha,” John growls. “Yeah, you’re taller than me, I get it. And let’s not forget, a hundred times cleverer. Of _course_ you wouldn’t want to include me in your plans. I’m only your friend.”

“John-” Sherlock reaches out a hand, tries to place in on John’s shoulder, but John slaps it away.

“I’m only the bloke who … oh, forget it!” John closes his eyes and exhales a long breath. (He’s more hurt than angry now.)

Sherlock steps in closer, and takes him by the shoulders, this time refusing to be put off when John again tries to push him away. “You’re more than my friend, John. That’s the problem.”

John opens an eye suspiciously. “How? How is it a problem?”

“You distract me,” Sherlock admits through gritted teeth. “There I am, trying to think about the case, about the evidence - and there _you_ are, and every time I look at you, every time you open your mouth … everything else disappears, all right? I can’t think straight. My brain won’t work - and that’s terrifying, John, absolutely bloody terrifying. If my brain won’t work, what am I? The thought that something might happen to you was bad enough before, but now … Now it’s impossible.”

A little twitch appears at one corner of John’s mouth, then another. He stills them for a moment, but immediately, they’re back again, and a moment later, he’s smiling. “Now we’ve had sex, you mean?”

Sherlock’s throat feels dry. “Yes.”

John’s smile becomes an ear-to-ear grin. “Flatterer.”

“I’m serious, John!” Sherlock tries to look stern but, as ever, John’s smile is infectious, and he knows he’s smiling back.

“So, you liked the sex?” John continues, conversationally (although the way he’s rubbing his hands together indicates a certain decisiveness). “Wanna do it again?”

“I-” The temptation is enormous, but Sherlock forces himself to be strong. “I can’t. Not now. Molly-”

“Nor can I. _Three days_ , remember? But then?”

Sherlock nods, too quickly. “Yes,” he says, awkwardly. “Thank you. That would be, uh … nice.”

“Then you’d better give up any ideas you might have in that genius head of yours about tackling Woodley alone,” John replies. “Because if you don’t take me with you, you’re not going to get so much as a hand-job before Christmas, d’you understand? And, yes, I do know that’s ten months away. Think about it.”

Sherlock doesn’t need to think about it. “All right. But bring your gun.”

“Mike’s got it. Under lock and key at Bart’s.”

“Excellent. We can kill two birds with one stone. Come on, let’s go.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

“So what else do you want at Bart’s?” John queries, when they’re in a cab and on their way.

“I need to see a man about a car,” Sherlock replies, settling back into his seat. “Now, shut up. I need to think.” And he closes his eyes, signalling to John that any attempt at conversation will be futile.

Obligingly, John falls silent, allowing Sherlock to revise and refine his plan: borrow Mike’s car (an anonymous, silver hatchback with an uninteresting number plate is just the thing to avoid attracting attention); obtain some kind of fast-acting tranquillizer (midazolam? propofol?); drive to St Albans (at this time of night on a Saturday, the journey will probably take over an hour); and gain admittance to Woodley’s house (somehow - the details can be worked out en route). (At least Woodley himself won’t be there: he’ll be at the event at Eden. The one Lestrade’s expecting to arrest him at.)

After that, Sherlock’s plan gets vaguer still. He tells himself it’s good to remain flexible.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Mike is in the lab, writing up notes. He looks up at the sound of footsteps as Sherlock and John approach him, and gives them a wry smile. “Yeah, I know,” he groans, indicating the files spread out in front of him with a wave of a hand. “How the mighty have fallen, eh? Doing my own paperwork on a Saturday evening. But this is what happens when your assistant goes missing. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from her?”

“Actually,” John says crisply, not bothering to hide his irritation at Mike’s lack of concern, “we think she might be in danger.”

“Danger?” Mike stops smiling. His brow furrows and behind his ill-fitting glasses, the light in his beady little brown eyes grows sharper. “What kind of danger?”

“She’s been abducted,” Sherlock tells him. “Hopefully, that’s all. But you know Molly - not exactly lucky with men, is she?”

John clears his throat, and Mike gives a little grunt.

Ignoring them both, Sherlock goes on. “So, Mike, can I borrow your car? Just for the night. I need to go to St Albans.”

“What’s wrong with a taxi?”

“Not sure how long I’ll need to be there.”

“What about a hire car?”

Sherlock pulls a dismissive face. “They’re always so clean. I need something more lived in. Something dull that won’t attract attention. No, don’t look like that. I meant a car whose owner obviously doesn’t care what people think.”

“You might want to stop digging,” John advises under under his breath. “The hole’s big enough now.”

Suddenly seeing what John means, Sherlock quickly flashes Mike one of his most charming smiles. “Please, Mike - as a favour to me? Plus, you’d be helping Molly.”

“Go on, then,” Mike sighs, pulling a key ring from his trouser pocket and tossing it to Sherlock. “Just don’t lose it. Or crash it. Or leave anything disgusting in it, like last time.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock agrees. “Thanks.”

Mike nods, puffing out his chest a little, like a man who’s highly aware of his own generosity and pleased to have it acknowledged by others. It’s the perfect moment for Sherlock to push his luck - now, whilst Mike is feeling good about himself.

“Oh, and whilst I’m here,” he asks sweetly, “I need some sedatives too. Something fast-acting, that’ll knock out a dog. Two dogs. Big dogs.”

“The Rottweilers?” John asks, a look of horror dawning. “Won’t they be chained up?”

“At night? When Woodley’s away from home? Unlikely, John.”

“Bloody hell,” John mutters, “those things looked vicious.”

“Which is why we need sedatives.”

“Or …” John purses his lips. “Mike, would you like us to take Amber for a little walk?”

“What?” Sherlock exclaims. “We haven’t got time for that!”

John pats his arm in what can only be described as a thoroughly patronizing manner. “Just trust me on this one, Sherlock. It’s a little trick I learnt in the army.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

Never mind Amber, Sherlock thinks, as Mike’s old Astra refuses yet again to go into fifth; his car’s the real bitch. And as if the neglected gearbox wasn’t enough, the whole thing reeks of fish and chips, there are crumbs _everywhere_ and unsavoury stains all over the seats. Sherlock’s relieved tonight’s mission called for old clothes. (God only know what’s rubbing off on John’s good jeans.)

( _Hell_. That was a mistake. Putting ‘John’ and ‘rubbing off’ in the same sentence.) Sherlock gives the gear-stick another shove, tries and fails to not think about John’s cock, or his own, and curses. However, this time his efforts at changing gear are rewarded by an alarming graunch of metal and the car lurches forward. (Still not fifth, then, but third. _Great_.)

“I thought you said you could drive,” John comments, one-handedly pulling his seatbelt away from its new position around his throat, and clutching his flagon of dog piss to his chest. (It’s a cunning idea, and he insists it will work. Let’s hope he’s right.)

“Any time you want to take over, John,” Sherlock offers. “Oh no, sorry - you can’t drive, can you?”

“Shut up.”

It’s oddly pleasant to bicker with John like this and it almost takes Sherlock’s mind off the task ahead of them. Getting past the dogs is going to be more exciting than he’d like, but once they’re inside the house, Mycroft’s little gizmo should easily take care of any alarms. Of course, the whole plan rests on Woodley not being at home. Sherlock’s fairly sure he’ll be at Eden: it sounded as if Lestrade would be taking part in a raid on the place. All the same, the house may not be empty. Woodley employs cleaners; they might work during his absence. There may be security staff who-

“This is our turning,” John says, cutting through Sherlock’s thoughts.

There follows another Herculean, but ultimately successful, struggle with the gearbox, and Sherlock manages to get down into second just in time to safely round the corner into the approach to Woodley’s house.

“You realize you’ve chosen the worst get-away car in the world?” John points out, helpfully.

“Yes. Thank you, John. That’s enough merry banter. We need to concentrate.”

The dogs start barking even before they pull up.

“It going to be fine,” John murmurs, nodding to himself. “Amber’s on heat. Right at the peak of her season. Those Rottweilers are both dogs. There’s no way they’re not going to be distracted. It’s all going to be fine.”

Sherlock grabs his rucksack from the back seat. “I’d be more convinced, John, if you didn’t feel the need to keep saying that.”

They leave the car unlocked (don’t want to be fumbling with keys as well as gear changes in the event of needing to make a speedy get-away) (and no-one’s going to steal the thing anyway), and cross to the gates.

The gates themselves have been designed with security in mind - narrow, straight rails, spaced just far enough apart not to be able to wedge a foot in but close enough to prevent even the thinnest person slipping through - but the gateposts are perfect for climbing, thanks to their ornamental brickwork. John scales the nearest one. The dogs spot him immediately and come barrelling over, barking furiously and triggering a glaringly bright security light. Perched on the capstone of the gatepost, Woodley’s dogs’ snapping jaws missing his ankles by scant inches, John takes a rag from his jacket pocket and carefully soaks it with some of the contents of his plastic container.

Almost immediately, the tone of the barking changes, and when John flings the rag as far as he can in the other direction, the dogs hurtle off after it.

John drops down into the courtyard and Sherlock hurries to follow, as John soaks more rags and throws them about randomly. He said he wasn’t sure how long the distraction would work; Sherlock decides to take no chances, and instead of fiddling about with a gemmy or a credit card, he simply elbows in one of the smaller living room windows and scrambles through. John is right behind him, breathing heavily and laughing, although his “Told you!” is completely drowned out by the clanging bells and sirens of Woodley’s alarm system. It takes several stabs on the buttons of Mycroft’s little toy to silence them.

“Where now?” John asks, when the noise finally stops.

“Upstairs.”

Sherlock bounds up the staircase and into the hallway. At the spot where he found Molly’s hair tie, he pauses, waiting for the scene to speak to him. (Molly was here, right in this spot. She left his scrunchie here, on the sideboard and then ..?) Sherlock takes the torch from his rucksack and flicks it on, sweeping the scene with it beam - floor, walls, ceiling … (A trap door! Directly overhead!) (Molly must have stood on the sideboard, opened the door, and hauled herself up into the attic to hide.)

Sherlock jumps up onto the sideboard and is reaching up to push the door open (god bless seventeenth century builders and their low ceilings!) when John’s urgent hiss stops him.

“Remember - she might not be up there alone.” He’s already taken his pistol out.

Sherlock nods at the gun meaningfully. “Follow me up.”

“Try stopping me.”

The roof space on either side of them is a classic inverted V, its rafters fuzzy with cobwebs and strung with loose-hanging electrical cables. Every few yards, there’s a chipboard panel, partitioning the space into a dozen separate areas, the floor heaped with cardboard boxes, crates and old furniture.

Unlike the rest of the house, Woodley’s attic doesn’t seem to have been touched in decades. The fabric casing around the insulation is frayed and crumbles at every touch, allowing little glass fibre spikes to needle their way into Sherlock’s hands as he crawls gingerly forward. (Old ceilings are notoriously thin in places.) Finding a solid joist, he pushes himself upright and turns to help John do the same.

Sherlock holds his breath. Waits. On the joist behind him, John tenses. A slight stirring of the air tells Sherlock he’s raised his gun in readiness, and somewhere in the distance, outside, a church bell strikes nine.

“Molly?” Sherlock breathes her name, rather than says it. There’s no answer. He takes a step forward. “Molly?” There’s still no answer, no movement of any kind. He takes another step. “Molly, it’s me - Sherlock.”

The sound of a stifled sob makes him jump. (Over there, behind the second partition!) He turns to John, who nods, and together they edge forward.

Molly is huddled into a corner, right at the point where the panel meets a rafter. Wild-eyed and shaking, she’s gripping a slightly bent golf club with both hands, apparently ready to use it. (A nine iron, by the looks of it.) (Which would certainly deliver a cutting blow, though probably not an incapacitating one, given Molly’s lack of upper body strength.)

Her eyes fill with tears. “Sherlock?”

“Absolutely,” he murmurs, slowly approaching her, hands raised. “It’s all right, Molly. We’re here. You’re safe now.”

She doesn’t look as if she can believe it, but she’s neither screaming, nor fainting, and Sherlock decides that’s a good sign. He moves in closer, bending down to assist her into a standing position with a hand at her elbow. No sooner is she upright, than her arms fly around his neck, and she clings on to him for dear life, her face buried in his chest. “Oh, Sherlock! It’s you! It really _is_ you.”

“Uh … yes.” He darts a look at John. (What the hell do you do with a woman this close?) John gestures for him to put an arm around her, quelling Sherlock’s mute objection with a fierce look. Obediently, Sherlock moves his arm into position, and he pats Molly lightly between the shoulder blades, saying, “There, uh, there. It’s all right. You’re all right.”

A minute passes, and she shows no sign of letting go. Risking John’s wrath, but unable to bear it any longer, Sherlock carefully disengages her hold. “What happened?”

The line of Molly’s mouth wobbles. “I’m an idiot,” she says. “A complete idiot.”

“Most people are,” Sherlock replies, and it’s meant to be reassuring but when it earns him another fierce look from John and a mouthed ‘Not now!’, he quickly modulates his tone, and smiles encouragingly. “Tell me what happened, Molly. Are you all right? He didn’t …?” He can’t say it: the idea of Woodley forcing himself on Molly of all people is too horrific for words.

“No, no,” she says quickly, as if she can sense his distress and is eager to dispel it. “No, he didn’t. He didn’t seem to even _want_ to. He was so nice to me at the club, but in the car, he didn’t even try to kiss me. And then, when we got here … Sherlock, I think he was going to kill me. He poured me a drink, told me to stay where I was and disappeared into the kitchen. But I can’t drink vodka straight so, when he was slow in coming back, I followed him to the kitchen -” She shudders, takes a breath. “ - he’d put a forensics coverall on, and he was going through the cutlery drawers. I suppose he might’ve been doing something else, but I didn’t wait to find out. I knew the security lights would come on if I ran outside, and he’d catch me, so I decided to find somewhere to hide.”

“And you left clues for me to find you?”

Molly bites her lip and nods. “I knew if you came looking for me, you’d see them.”

Her faith in him is touching, almost as touching as John’s. Sherlock smiles. “Of _course_ I’d come looking for you, Molly Hooper.”

Her return smile is shy, but her eyes sparkle. “I don’t know why you’d bother.”

(Oh god.) (Better nip this in the bud.) “Because you’re invaluable to me - Mike never lets me in the mortuary out-of-hours.”

“Charming,” John groans. “Absolutely charming. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Descending from the attic, Sherlock decides to let John go first. John wouldn’t want to leave Molly alone in the attic, even if only for a short time, but if Sherlock goes first, he’ll be the one having to catch her on the way down. (Much better to let John handle that.) (It’s like one of those river-crossing puzzles ordinary people seem to have so much difficulty with: how does the farmer get the goose, fox and grain across the river without them eating one another if there can only be two things in his boat at any one time.)

They drop down through the trap door one by one, without injury, and they’re at the top of the stairs, with Sherlock trying to solve the much more taxing problem of how to get the three of them safely across the courtyard without getting savaged, when Woodley’s dogs start barking again. Sherlock dives into a guest bedroom (no-one bothers closing curtains at night in guest rooms, thus no risk of drawing attention by opening them) and peers out into the night. A figure is striding across the courtyard, the dogs running and barking in his wake, but it’s not Woodley: this man is too tall, too slim, too young.

“Hey,” John says, appearing at Sherlock’s side, “isn’t that … what was his name?”

“James Hatch,” Sherlock confirms, just as Molly gasps, “Mark Woodley!”

John does a double-take and Sherlock’s mind starts to whirr. (There was always something off about Molly’s friends’ story: Woodley isn’t the knight in shining armour type - and even if he _were_ , he wouldn’t have lowered himself to break up a cat-fight; he’d have sent in a minion. A minion like Hatch.) (For a guilty man, Woodley was incredibly relaxed during the house search - because, of course, he _wasn’t_ guilty. He had no idea that Molly was here.) (So Woodley is innocent. The villain is Hatch - but why would he bring Molly here?) Sherlock presses his hands together, tapping his fingers together rapidly, and starts to pace. (Because it was a nice, quiet, out-of-the-way place for a bit of rape and murder? No, from what Molly says, he wasn’t interested in sex.) (Just murder then … His M.O. was certainly coldly calculating enough for a psychopath.) (But in that case, why bother leaving London? Why bring Molly _here_?)

“Oh!”

John frowns at him. “Oh?”

“Don’t you see, John?” Sherlock exclaims. “Hatch was trying to frame Woodley! I haven’t quite worked out the reason yet but-”

Downstairs, the front door open and shuts with a bang. John draws his gun again. “Think you’d better save it for later,” he says, his face grim. “We’ve got company.”

“Oh god, oh god!” Molly gasps, her voice little more than a terrified whisper. “I’m such a fool. He seemed so nice, and he was kind to me-”

Sherlock goes cold, feels sick, as the long-denied memory slams into him again, clearer now. Horribly clear. He’s eleven years old. On the beach - beside the pier, not under it. In sunlight, half-heartedly building a sandcastle, and feeling restless. The man … Is he really a man? He’s not that much older. Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty? The man smiles - a nice smile, perfect lips - and asks “Want to play a game?” Sherlock nods eagerly and scrambles to his feet …

“-I am so, so sorry,” Molly is saying, somewhere nearby. “I should never have gone with him. I’m such a fool-”

“Rubbish,” John says, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “It’s not your fault. Any of it. Stop giving yourself a hard time about it. Just because some bastard took advantage of your good nature … It’s _not_ your fault. Sherlock, listen - I’ve got a plan.”

Sherlock blinks, pulls himself together. Hears banging about downstairs. “What?”

“Molly can stay in here whilst you and l wait for Hatch on either side at the top of the stairs. We can hide behind the wall. When he gets to the top, he’s got to turn one way or the other. If he goes your way - I’ll grab him from behind; if he goes my way, you do the same. All right?”

Sherlock nods, and leaving Molly, hugging herself with fear, they step back out onto the landing.

“I’ll take the other side,” Sherlock whispers when they reach the stairs. (There’s a risk of being seen crossing over.) “And don’t do anything stupid, John. Keep safe.”

“You too,” John whispers back. “Now quick!”

Sherlock darts across the gap at the top of the stairs and flattens himself against the wall, just in time to hear the bottom stair creak under Hatch’s tread. His heart is hammering; he ought to feel excited, exhilarated. Instead, he’s full of dread. If anything happens to John .. If his selfish desire to keep in John’s good books results in him being hurt …

Another stair creaks. Sherlock forces himself to concentrate. (How many steps were there? Ten? No, eleven.) He starts to count. _Three. Four. Five._ Slowly and steadily, Hatch mounts the stairs. _Six. Seven. Eight._ Sherlock looks at John. He’s concentrating too, head cocked to one side, judging how close Hatch is getting from the volume of his footfall. _Nine. Ten._

(This is it!)

 _Eleven_. Hatch’s polished brogue hits the landing carpet, and pivots in John’s direction. He’s brandishing a gun, but Sherlock is on him in a flash, left arm around his neck, right hand dragging his gun arm back and down, as Hatch fights to free himself. (Dear god, the man is strong!) Sherlock has to lean forward and spread his feet to stop himself from being pulled over.

“Mr Hatch, stay exactly where you are,” John orders in the steeliest of tones. “Drop your weapon and put your hands in the air. I’m armed and I _will_ shoot you.”

Hatch stops resisting and, as he gingerly raises his hands, Sherlock eases back.

“Sherlock!” John warns, but it’s too late, because Hatch is already ducking down and spinning around, taking Sherlock with him, using his body as a shield against John’s gun. Sherlock straightens up, stamps hard on Hatch’s foot and elbows him in the ribs. Hatch doesn’t let go, but he staggers and trips - and together, the two of them go tumbling down the stairs.

(Pain! That’s pain!) Sherlock’s back hits the stairs under both his own weight and Hatch’s. ( _Shit_. Another, awkward hit like that could be serious.) Sherlock kicks out, feet braced against the wall, and throws himself into a sideways roll. He cracks his head off the opposite wall in the process, but as he goes over, he manages to get on top of Hatch and they half-fall, half-slide down the remaining stairs, coming to a halt in a crumpled heap at the bottom.

Sherlock has little time to enjoy his victory; the next thing he knows, the mouth of Hatch’s pistol is against his temple, and John, who came thundering down the stairs after them, freezes.

“Put that gun down. On the floor. Next to me,” Hatch tells him, breathing heavily. “And walk away with your hands up.”

“Don’t do it, John,” Sherlock says.

Hatch drills the barrel of his gun harder into Sherlock’s skin. “Don’t make me kill you,” he hisses. “I’m sure your little dancing friend would hate to see your brains splattered all over the walls.”

John forgets to blink. (Oh god, he’s seen splattered brains before.) “All right,” he nods, numbly, his voice scarcely recognizable. “I’m putting the gun down. I’m putting it down now.” He crouches slowly, and lays the gun on the floor, his hand steady, but his breathing rapid and uneven.

As he backs carefully away, hands raised in surrender, Hatch snatches up his pistol. He jabs Sherlock with it. “Get off me. And go stand by your friend. Hands up.”

Sherlock picks himself up. He’s bruised, but there’s nothing broken. At an impatient gesture from Hatch, he remembers his hands are supposed to be in the air, and hastily puts them there. As far as he can tell, he’s not bleeding. Yet.

Still on the floor, but with both guns now trained on Sherlock, Hatch wriggles clear of the foot of the stairs. He rolls his hips, flinching a little when he lands on his side and, pushing down with an elbow, twists some more and manages to get a knee to the ground. Another push and he’s upright.

“D’you know what’s going to happen now?” he asks, with a sneer.

“Let me guess,” Sherlock replies, with an indifference he doesn’t feel, (it’s hard to feel indifferent when your body’s awash with adrenalin and your heartbeat approaching a hundred and sixty beats per minute), “you’re going to kill me.”

“Well- “ Hatch begins, but that’s as far as he gets because, head down like a charging bull, John rushes him, roaring with anger. Before Hatch can do a thing to save himself, John’s head slams into his solar plexus. Hatch’s arms flail, one of the guns goes off, and something (a metal ring? A chandelier?) comes crashing down from the ceiling. Whether it hits Hatch or John, Sherlock’s not sure but they both fall, and he throws himself after them, wresting the gun Hatch is still holding from his hand by the simple expedient of forcing his wrist back on itself until one of the bones breaks with an audible snap.

As Hatch howls in pain, John dives for the other gun, and comes up smiling, blood trickling down one cheek.

“You’re hurt,” Sherlock says, shaking with relief.

“Of course I’m bloody hurt!” Hatch howls. “You broke my sodding arm!”

“Not you, you moron,” Sherlock snaps. “John - are you okay?”

Still smiling, John nods. “Just a flesh wound.”

Sherlock swallows. Nods. “Good. Good.”

“What’re we going to do with him?” John asks, a flash of something dangerous in his eyes.

A little cough above them makes them both look up. “I, uh, hope it’s all right,” Molly says, smiling nervously, “but there was a phone in that room, so I dialled nine nine nine. The police are on their way.”

Sherlock laughs. “Molly Hooper, you’re a genius!”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

In St Albans police station, they have to wait hours to be questioned. Sherlock is all for calling Lestrade and demanding he speak to someone, but John insists on letting the police ‘just do their job’ and Molly looks like she’ll burst into tears if Sherlock ‘makes a fuss’, so they sit on hard, plastic chairs in an unwelcoming grey corridor drinking something filthy that calls itself coffee until they’re finally called in, one at a time.

When John enters the interview room, Sherlock takes out his phone. Texting isn’t calling. It doesn’t count.

Text: Did you get him? SH

A minute later, there’s a reply.

Text: You know I can’t tell you that. GL

(That’s what he always says.)

Text: What if I told you we’d rescued Molly? SH

Text: Thank god. Is she okay? GL

Sherlock looks across at Molly who’s flicking through a celebrity gossip magazine for a fourth time. He never expected to be playing Cupid for her.

Text: She’s fine. In need of a little TLC but fine. SH

Text: Good. Thanks. That other thing - YES. GL

Slipping his phone back into his pocket, Sherlock smiles.

Molly smiles back. “Good news?”

“I should say so. For both of us.”

“What?”

“Never mind. You’ll find out soon enough.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

**_Sunday, 13th February - 6.00 am_ **

 

It’s still dark when they finally get back to Baker Street, although the fact that Mr Chatterjee has already opened up shows morning is fast approaching. He waves a floury-handed ‘hello’ through the café window as they alight from their taxi. Sherlock acknowledges the greeting with a nod but John makes the effort to wave back, despite his obvious exhaustion.

John’s tiredness becomes even more noticeable as they make their way up the stairs and he seems to be having such trouble putting one foot in front of the other that, coming up behind him, Sherlock puts a hand on his back and pushes.

“It’s fine,” John mutters, his words blurry with sleepiness. “I’m fine. I can manage.”

“Of course, you can,” Sherlock agrees. “You’re just taking time to admire Mrs Hudson’s impeccable taste in wallpaper.”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock slips an arm around his waist and half-carries him up the rest of the stairs. Once in the living room, John takes off his coat, misses the peg he tries to hang it on, and collapses into a chair. “Think I’ll just have a little rest,” he murmurs, closing his eyes.

“No. Absolutely not,” Sherlock says firmly. “You need to go to bed.”

Already half-asleep, John stumbles to his feet, and turns towards the stairs.

Sherlock stops him with a sharp, “Where do you think you’re going?”

John frowns. “Thought you wanted me to go to bed?”

“I do,” Sherlock confirms. “But you don’t sleep upstairs any more. You sleep in my room. With me.”

Despite his tiredness, a fond smile steals across John’s face. “I do?”

“ _Yes_. Come on. I’ll help you undress.”

Sherlock’s bed is a mess - still rumpled from last night, the sheets still stiff and unsavoury - but it’ll have to do. John falls onto it without complaint, and Sherlock kneels to ease off his shoes and socks, before climbing up beside him. He pulls John’s shirt and jumper off in one go, then unzips his trousers and, through it all, John lies limp and unresisting … right up until the moment Sherlock tries to take off his underpants.

“Nnn,” he grunts, pushing at Sherlock’s hands. “Wanna keep them on. In … case of … fire.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says, trying again, but when John pushes him off a second time, he gives up. He’s too tired for this himself. He takes off his own clothes, lies down beside John, and pulls the covers up over them both.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Daylight rouses Sherlock some time later. He stirs unwillingly. The bed is comfortable, and warm … _very_ warm. He opens his eyes, and instantly his heart flips over at the sight of the back of John’s head, resting on the pillow beside him. Edging closer, he puts a hand lightly on John’s side and, when John doesn’t wake, he moves closer still, tucking himself in behind him so that they’re spooned together.

The sensation, though pleasant, isn’t quite what he expected. Mostly it’s one of soft, skin-on-skin contact but where John’s buttocks should be, there’s something dry and fibrous between them. Sherlock lifts the covers to investigate - and finds underpants: John’s neat little jersey boxers. The ones which, in his sleep-deprived stupor earlier, he refused to let Sherlock remove. Sherlock runs his fingertip around the very top of their elastic waistband, then, when John still doesn’t react, he pushes his fingertip under it - followed by his whole hand - and slowly, slowly starts working the pants down. John snuffles a bit and, sighing into the sheets, rolls over onto his front, but he doesn’t wake. Emboldened, Sherlock folds the bedclothes back out of the way, grasps the pants firmly with both hands and pulls them down to John’s thighs.

He quickly wishes he hadn’t. ( _This_ is why John wouldn’t take them off. He didn’t want me to see.)

On the roundest part of John’s buttocks on both sides, there’s a straight, purple-red bruise, almost three inches long and the exact thickness of a riding crop. Sherlock knew they must be there, but actually seeing them is different, and a wave of guilt washes over him, making his throat tighten and his stomach contract. (Which is all very understandable, and good.) (What’s not so understandable - and what’s definitely not good at all - is this sudden rush of arousal, this sense of ownership and control.)

Tentatively, Sherlock touches the marks, presses down on them … and John comes to with a grunt and an irritated, “What? What is it?”

“I’ve bruised you.”

“Oh bugger.” John rolls onto his side, removing his backside from Sherlock’s view. “Yeah. I didn’t want you to see that. It’s all right, Sherlock. Seriously. Don’t worry about it.”

Sherlock realizes he’s not worried: he’s fascinated. (How can it be ‘all right’?) “What … what did it feel like?”

John gives an embarrassed little laugh. “It hurt.”

“But you were hard. The whole time.”

“Yeah …” John nods, and looks away. “I, uh, need some tea. D’you want some tea?”

Not waiting for an answer, he pulls his pants back up again, puts on his jeans and, snatching up his shirt, disappears in the direction of the kitchen.

“Damn it,” Sherlock hisses, abandoning the comfortable warmth of the bed in favour of donning his thin, chilly dressing gown to follow him.

John isn’t making tea. He’s staring out of the kitchen window, picking at its flaking paintwork with a nail.

“You’re hiding from me,” Sherlock accuses, from the other side of the room.

“I’m making tea!”

“No, you’re not.” Sherlock walks over and turns him around. “Why don’t you want to talk to me about this?”

The muscles in John’s cheeks flex and tighten. “Because I feel like an idiot, all right? I didn’t intend any of that to happen. _Ever_. You … you just took me by surprise.”

Sherlock crosses to the kettle, fills it and switches it on. “You weren’t going to tell me? Ask me to? Eventually?”

Approaching the table, John grips the back of a chair as if to support himself and makes a pretence of finding its padded, plastic seat so attention-worthy he can’t look Sherlock in the eye. “No. I was planning on keeping it to myself.”

Sherlock gives a reproving little snort as he takes down two clean mugs from the cupboard and puts tea bags in them. “Really, John! If you’d seriously wanted to keep it secret, you would never have got into a relationship with _me_ in the first place. You’d never even have moved in. Because you know who I am, what I do. What was it you said on your blog, when you wrote up the taxi driver case?”

“The _Study in Pink_ case,” John corrects. He’s raised his head now, but he’s still avoiding direct eye contact.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “That one. You said - and I quote - ‘Sherlock sees through everyone and everything in seconds’. You _knew_ I’d find out. You _wanted_ me to find out.”

John shakes his head and bites his lip. “No, I didn’t. I _really_ didn’t.”

The kettle comes to the boil but Sherlock ignores it.“You wanted me to find out,” he insists. “You wanted me to find out _and be okay with it_.”

John doesn’t answer, but a spot of pink appears on his cheeks.

Sherlock takes the three steps he needs to stand right next to him and, laying a hand on one of John’s, squeezes it. “I am, John. Okay with it.”

“You are?”

“Yes.” Sherlock slides his hand up further over John’s, towards his wrist, encircling it with his fingers. When he tightens his grip, John quivers slightly, just as he always has, and Sherlock takes advantage of the moment to twist him around and propel him back towards the window, where he shoves him, chest-first, up against the nearby scrap of wall.

“Sherlock!” John gasps, wriggling away from the window as best he can, when Sherlock reaches around to undo his flies. “Someone will see.”

“No. They won’t. Not unless you draw attention to yourself by thrashing about.”

Cheek turned to the wall, John moans, “Oh god,” but he stops struggling, allowing Sherlock to get his zip all the way down. “I’m an idiot.”

Sherlock grazes the back of his neck with his teeth, making him shudder. “No-one had ever done that to you before, had they?”

“No.” John’s voice has a strangled note to it - a note that makes Sherlock’s abdomen tighten in anticipation.

“Then you didn’t know. What it would be like. Weren’t you afraid?”

John drags in a breath. “I was bloody terrified.”

Sherlock pushes John’s trousers and underpants down over his hips, and encourages him to finish the job with a light tap to the back of his thigh. “Terrified of _me_?”

Half-dressed now, and still pinned to the wall, John shivers. There’s a long, long pause before he tries to answer the question, as if he’s really thinking about it. “Not of _you_ , no. But of what you’d think. I didn’t want you thinking it was something I always do. Or that I need it to get off.”

“What I thought,” Sherlock replies, slipping his free hand up under John’s shirt to trace light circles over the small of his back, “was that Jenkins had done it to you before. And maybe others as well. So, what you said in the taxi was right: I _did_ just think you had a thing for pain. I got that wrong, didn’t I?”

John squirms. “A bit.”

“Though, in my defence, I should point out that I didn’t have all the relevant data at that point.” He pauses, kisses John’s shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. “It had to be _me_ , didn’t it?”

Sherlock hears John swallow and the sound makes his cock twitch.

“Yes.”

“D’you want to tell me why?”

John’s back arches as Sherlock’s hand slips lower. “No.”

Sherlock leans in closer. “Tell me anyway.”

“Because … because I’m sodding well in love with you, all right? There. I’ve said it. I know you think people in love are idiots, but - as you’ve pointed out on more than one occasion - I’m an idiot.”

How mere words can make Sherlock’s limbs feel so weak, he has no idea; nor how they can make his skin tingle.

“Good,” he says, thickly. “Not that you’re an idiot. The other thing. Turn around.”

John hesitates, obviously surprised. He was expecting pain, Sherlock knows, but Sherlock has other plans, and as John slowly turns to face him, he drops to his knees in front of him.

John’s eyes go wide and his mouth falls open. “Sherlock …”

“Shut up. Lean back against the wall. I don’t want you collapsing on me.”

John leans back. He’s hard, and Sherlock eyes his cock with trepidation. (Nerve endings, remember. John wants to feel helpless and overwhelmed, but there’s more than one way of achieving it.) Placing his hands on the front of John’s lean thighs, Sherlock strokes his thumbs between them, from the tight, smooth skin of his legs up towards his scrotum.

John’s hips jerk under his touch and he lets out a moan.

“Keep still,” Sherlock says, with a light, warning slap to the side of John’s leg.

John moans again, his muscles tensing as he tries to comply.

Still on his knees, Sherlock shuffles in closer and kisses the top of John’s thighs. Sucks on them. Bites. They taste of salt, smell of sweat and musk, and its glorious. John has already started trembling and Sherlock’s not entirely steady himself. He’s intoxicated, drunk on the taste and scent of John’s body, and dizzy with want. He buries his nose in John’s pubic hair, cups his balls in his hand, and caresses them until John is shaking with need. Sherlock pulls back.

John’s cock is straining now, curved back against his belly and visibly throbbing. Grasping it firmly, Sherlock gives the tip an exploratory lick (it tastes of salt, and of something bitter, something dry). John inhales noisily and rolls his hips.

“I told you to keep still,” Sherlock growls.

“S-sorry,” John stammers. “I’m trying but-”

Sherlock cuts him off by prising his cock far enough away from his abdomen and taking the head of it into his mouth.

“Oh god,” John breathes, fingernails scraping against the wallpaper. “Oh _god_.”

Sherlock has no idea what he’s doing, or what he’s supposed to do. He’s not even sure he _can_ do anything: John’s cock is by far the largest thing he’s ever had in his mouth, and even though John is doing his best to keep still, he’s moving anyway, his cock pulsing and straining against the roof of Sherlock’s mouth, trying to drive in further, and threatening to choke him. It’s half-terrifying, and half the most exciting thing Sherlock has ever done.

He pulls back a little so that he has room to move his tongue and even though all he does is wiggle it a bit, it’s enough to make John moan and thrash his head. More confident now, Sherlock starts experimenting, flicking his tongue and pressing down with it, rubbing and rolling. John shudders and pants, but manages to keep himself firmly in check right up until it occurs to Sherlock that sucking would be a good idea. At that point, John’s self-control cracks completely and, all of a sudden, his hands are in Sherlock hair, trying not to pull, but pulling anyway, and his hips start pumping, despite his best efforts to keep them still.

Sherlock realizes his own hips are rocking too, in sympathy with John’s, and driven by some deep, dark hunger low in his pelvis. He sucks John harder, bobs his head faster, but it’s not enough: he need something too and, reaching down, he takes hold of himself. ( _Oh god_.) His own hand has never felt so good. (There’s something awful about doing this in front of John, something desperate and needy, and - _oh god_ \- somehow that makes it perfect.) With each pull Sherlock’s pleasure builds higher, sparks of heat coursing up and down his spine, orgasm mere heartbeats away.

He slows his hand. (John has to come first. Have to hold on for John.)

John is shaking now, right on the very edge of climaxing, and having him poised there sends another dangerous thrill through Sherlock’s bones he’s not sure he can resist. ( _No_. Not now. Not yet. John _first_.) (How can I make him ..?)

Inspiration strikes. Sherlock pulls back, drawing his lips up John’s cock towards the tip. He hovers there for a while, making John wait, feeling the tension in his body build to a peak. One movement now will be all that it takes to push him over the edge. Sherlock makes two: sliding his lips back down John’s cock until it hits the roof of his mouth again and, at the same time, pushing a finger inside John’s body.

John hips stutter and he cries out, then slumps back against the wall, panting Sherlock’s name.

A strange sweetness floods Sherlock’s tongue. Swallowing, he works himself harder. He’s on the edge now too, and when he tips his head back to suck in a breath, all the hot little sparks of pleasure that have been coursing through him explode at once. The next thing he knows, his forehead is pressed to John’s belly and John’s fingers are combing gently through his hair.

With some effort, Sherlock staggers to his feet. His hand is wet and sticky, and his jaw aches. His knees and the front of his thighs hurt, and god only knows how he’s going to feel later but right now he’s happy - ridiculously, insanely happy.

John winds his arms around him. “I already told you I love you, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs, looking down at his lips. (Would it be acceptable to kiss him now? After sucking his cock? Or would he find it disgusting?)

As Sherlock stands wondering, John answers the question for him by pulling him down into a kiss that’s long, and sweet, and tender. “Let’s go back to bed.”

“What about the tea? Don’t you want tea? Something to eat? You haven’t eaten for twenty-four _hours_ , John.”

John shakes his head. “Too floppy to eat now. Maybe later. Besides, I had some biscuits at the police station.” He smiles. “Come on. A couple of hours more kip and then I’ll let you take me out for lunch.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

_It’s that place again, and yet it feels subtly different - less dark, less menacing. Sherlock looks around. The same metal cobweb surrounds him, the same wet sand sucks at his feet, whilst overhead, the same dark structure blots out the sun - but there are cracks in it now, whole planks missing, and through the gaps they’ve left behind, he can see birds, and sunlight, and sky._

_He can tell, too, that it’s here still, the thing that used to scare him, but he he’s not afraid any more, and when he sees the silhouette of a man approaching, he steps out to meet it, smiling._

_It’s John._

_It was always John._

_John’s face is determined, his gun extended but Sherlock walks calmly - happily - towards him, unbuttoning first his jacket and then his shirt, tossing them aside as he goes._

_He doesn’t stop walking until he’s right in front of John, until the gun touches his chest, and the cold metal barrel digs into the skin above his heart._

_“Shoot me, John,” he whispers.”You know you want to.”_

_But instead of firing the gun, John presses it into him harder and Sherlock’s skin opens around it like a flower blooming, petals of flesh splitting and folding back as the barrel sinks in._

_For a moment, it’s agony. Then John kisses him, and all that’s left is bliss._

 

Sherlock awakes with a gasp to find John watching him.

“Good dream?” he smiles.

“I … don’t know.”

His hesitation makes John frown, and he runs a gentle finger down Sherlock’s cheek. “What was it? D’you want to tell me?”

“You,” Sherlock says, awkwardly. “It was you.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Me? What was I doing?”

Saying it out loud will sound like an invitation, a request, or even an order, and Sherlock’s not sure that’s how he wants it to be. He wriggles closer and throws a leg over John’s hip, pressing his heel against the back of John’s knee to urge him closer. John’s response is warm and enthusiastic. He crushes his lips to Sherlock’s, plunges his tongue into his mouth, and runs a hand down his spine and onto his backside. In no time at all, their kissing gets wetter and more heated. Sherlock tugs at John’s hair, bites at his lips, and his tongue, and his throat, whilst John writhes with pleasure, digging his fingers into Sherlock’s muscles, his nails scraping skin, as he rocks against him, hot and hungry and wanting more.

“Me,” Sherlock breathes at last. “You were doing _me_.”

Abruptly, the rocking and kissing stops, and John gazes at him, incredulity fighting desire in his impossibly unguarded eyes. “Are you … are you telling me this because you want me to?”

“Yes. No. Maybe?” (Why am I so nervous about this? This is _John_ , for god’s sake!)

John smiles. “D’you just want to give it a try and see how it goes?”

Sherlock nods, once, quickly: any more questions, any analysis, any thinking at all, and he’ll lose his nerve. “Yes. Please.”

John’s smile widens. “All right. Hang on.” He sits up, leaning across Sherlock to rifle through the things on his bedside table. (Ah yes, the jelly. Still there from-) “Right,” John says, his tone oddly business-like and brisk, as he tucks the little tube beneath his pillow, “we are going to take this very, very slowly, okay? And if you change your mind at any point - at _any_ point, Sherlock - we’ll stop.”

Sherlock nods again.

Lying back down, so that they’re face to face, and looking into each other’s eyes, John kisses him. “I love you, remember. You changing your mind won’t change that. Just so you know.”

“All right.”

John kisses him again, with infinite tenderness this time, a slow caress of lips and tongue, as if they have all the time in the world. Sherlock kisses him back just as slowly, relishing the strong, solid press of John’s body, and the glide of John’s hand over his arm and shoulders and back. John’s warm fingers trace the line of Sherlock’s spine down towards his buttocks, where they smooth and stroke until Sherlock can feel all the little hairs there standing up on end as the skin beneath them tingles wildly.

John pauses to look at him. “You are,” he says, earnest and breathless, “without doubt, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and I can’t believe-”

(No! No talking. No thinking.) To shut him up, Sherlock hooks a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him into another kiss.

The sudden loss of the hand that moments ago was caressing him, along with the sound of rustling between the pillows, tells Sherlock that John is reaching for the jelly. Not wanting to break the mood, he keeps his eyes closed as John opens the tube and squirts some out. He knows what comes next: one finger, two, a bit of scissoring, penetration. (So much for not thinking.)

But that’s not what happens at all. John rolls over onto his back, pulling Sherlock with him, until Sherlock is lying with his pelvis half-on, half-off John’s. There’s more kissing, more rocking, the friction of John’s hip bone against Sherlock’s erection tantalizing close to being enough …

John hugs Sherlock close, happiness bubbling out of him in little chuckles, as he kisses Sherlock’s mouth playfully, bit by bit - his top lip, the bottom one, the left corner, the right. It’s lovely, but when John splays his hand against the small of Sherlock’s back and presses down, it’s lovelier still. It feels possessive, and demanding, and it makes Sherlock’s bones melt with desire. A squeeze parts his buttocks, and then John’s finger, miraculously wet and slippery, is between them, not pushing in, but slowly circling, increasing the pressure with each revolution. Sherlock catches his breath. The waiting, the not knowing how it will feel when John finally breaches him, is excruciating - a strangely arousing mix of want and fear. (This must be how it was for John, with the crop.) Sherlock shivers at the thought and the pulse in his cock beats harder: this is his own point of helpless, willing surrender. It shouldn’t be happening. It’s against all laws of nature: things shouldn’t go _in_ there. Father would be disgusted, Mother distressed, but John’s using two fingers now, pressing down harder, and Sherlock couldn’t care less. All he cares about is having more of this, more of this feeling of being utterly at John’s mercy and loving it, but he’s so tense from waiting now that he’s started to shake. (Oh god, talk about undignified.) He shifts position in an attempt to regain his composure only to find himself writhing instead, rotating his hips to John’s rhythm, pushing back against his fingers, inviting them in.

John must notice the change, because his hand is on the back of Sherlock’s neck now, gripping, and holding him steady. Their eyes meet just as John’s fingers, both of them, push inside Sherlock’s body, side by side. (Oh god!) Sherlock jerks and gasps. He’s never felt so vulnerable or so exposed, not even with that bastard on the beach, because he _wants_ this. He _wants_ John inside him.

Eyes shimmering with emotion and watching Sherlock intently, John pushes his fingers in deeper still. (Oh god, oh god, oh god.) Sherlock feels his eyes and his mouth open wide in alarm. It stings, and burns, and threatens a complete loss of control. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, doesn’t know if he can bear any more. His breathing speeds up and his heart races.

“John!” he cries, with no idea what he means by it.

John’s grip on his neck is still firm. “You’re all right. I’ve got you. Breathe.”

“Breathe. Yes.” Sherlock nods, inhales, shakily at first, then more deeply.

“All right?”

“Yes. I think so. Thank you.”

“D’you want me to stop?”

“No.”

John rolls him onto his back, slithers off to one side, and kisses him. “Good.”

This new position feels even more dangerous and Sherlock has to pant away a fresh upsurge of panic. John waits patiently, kissing him through it.

“Bend your legs, feet flat on the bed,” he says, when Sherlock’s calm again.

Sherlock bends his legs, waits. (What now? Oh god, what now?)

Murmuring soft little sounds of reassurance, John lowers his head to suck on Sherlock’s nipples, moving his fingers in shallow little thrusts, changing the angle a fraction each time until at last he hits a spot that takes Sherlock’s breath away.

“Prostate?” Sherlock gasps, neck arching into the pillow, eyes rolling back in his head.

“Prostate,” John confirms, pushing against it harder, so that this time, Sherlock’s hips cant up from the bed, and he hears himself moan. “Not too much, is it?”

“Not,” Sherlock pants, “enough. Do that again.”

John does it again, and does it a third time too, making Sherlock arch once more, and bite his lip.

John nuzzles into the crook of his neck and kisses his jaw, murmuring, “I could get you off like this, if you like. We don’t need to do anything else. I can wait.”

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head, a little wildly, his voice hoarse. “No waiting. Now.”

Carefully pulling his fingers from Sherlock’s body, John smiles. “Okay. Roll over onto your side.”

Sherlock gives him a disbelieving look. “My side? Why-”

“Would you prefer being on your hands and knees?”

An image of himself - face down, backside in the air - flashes across Sherlock’s mind. “No!”

John grins. “Then shut up for a bit, and do as you’re told.”

With an impatient little grunt, designed to conceal the way he’s bowing to John’s greater experience (not to mention the way imaging being taken by John like a bitch on heat was almost as exciting as it was horrifying), Sherlock turns onto his side. Immediately, John snuggles up behind him, his lips dotting kissing between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, and one hand on his hipbone, guiding it back.

Sherlock starts at the feel of a line of heat - swollen and hard - against his buttocks.

“Breathe out,” John murmurs, wriggling lower, adjusting the angle.

Sherlock exhales, but he’s so keyed up now, he breathes in again almost immediately.

“And again.”

Sherlock tries again but the same thing happens.

“That’s good,” John says, without even a hint of irritation. (His patience is amazing.) “And again.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and, concentrating hard, slowly exhales.

“I love you,” John says against his back, the words vibrating through Sherlock’s ribcage, and Sherlock finds himself melting again at the sound of them, at what they _mean_ , just as John pushes into him, slow and deep and sure.

(Oh god, oh god, oh god.) (It’s astounding, Not comfortable, not easy, not even particularly good, but astounding. The strangest sensation I have ever-) Sherlock drags in deep lungfuls of air. 

“Okay?” John asks, just as patiently as before, even though his voice is a few semitones higher than before and tight with the effort of keeping himself under control.

Sherlock nods, and is about to furnish John with more information regarding his impressions of the act, when the hand that, seconds ago, was on his hipbone, slides further round to grasp his cock. Meanwhile, inside him, John’s starts moving.

( _Oh, Jesus fucking Christ._ ) (How … how the hell am I supposed to …)

Sherlock’s brain cuts out for a moment, returns for the split second it takes to register John is wanking him off, as well as thrusting steadily against _that spot_ , before shorting out again, leaving his body fizzing with electricity and shuddering with pleasure.

“All right?” he hears John ask, but since he’s lost the power of speech, he can’t reply. He nods instead, moans, and arches helplessly.

John moans too, thrusts deeper and faster, his hand on Sherlock’s cock working it at something like a matching pace. Sherlock wishes they were face to face, with some tender part of John’s body within easy reaching distance, because right now he needs desperately to bite down on something to stop himself from howling. (It's too much. Too good. Oh god.) He twists his head to the side and sinks his teeth into the pillow, but it’s too dry and he has to spit it out again. (It’s no good. There’s only so much control a man can be expected to have.) “John! Oh god, John ... _John_!”

Behind him, John tenses, gives a final, shuddering thrust and stills.

“John?” Sherlock grumbles, feeling cheated.

John starts. “Oh, god. Sorry! Yes! I’m still …”

The hand on Sherlock’s cock starts moving again, more purposefully now, John’s whole attention focused on it, not just tugging, but squeezing too, in bone-dissolving little pulses that drag more chants of John’s name from Sherlock’s lips, until at last, Sherlock can’t even breathe, let alone speak, and the only thing that matters is that John gives his cock one more pull …

For several long minutes, they lie as they are - John flat on his back, Sherlock sprawled on his back on top of him, with one of John’s arms about his waist. Eventually, however, the position becomes too uncomfortable and Sherlock rolls away, onto his side.

John gets up from the bed.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock demands, too sated to try to stop him.

“For a quick shower, and then I’m going to make you something to eat.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock grunts, burrowing into the bedclothes.

“And you,” John continues, “are going to take a shower immediately afterwards, okay?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock grunts again, scarcely listening.

John pulls the sheets and blankets off him. “I mean it, Sherlock. And afterwards, you’re going to apply some gel. I’ll leave it next to the basin.”

“I don’t-”

“Just do it, Sherlock,” John insists. “You’ll thank me later.”

Sherlock props himself up on both elbows to look at him. “Is this you looking after me?”

“Yes, it is. Try to be gracious about it.”

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Half an hour later, Sherlock emerges from the shower to the smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee. (John must have nipped out for groceries) and when he enters the kitchen - feeling very, very hungry - it’s to the very welcome sight of John plating up a substantial breakfast.

Looking up from his task, John smiles warmly but there’s a flicker of concern in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock smiles back. “That’s a very annoying question, isn’t it? I can see now why it irritated you so much when I kept asking it. Yes, John - I’m fine. Better than fine.”

John grimaces in a I’m-sorry-but-I-need-to-ask-this way. “Not sore?”

“Not really,” Sherlock tells him cheerfully, taking a seat. “Why is that? You were. Are.”

John looks sheepish as he puts Sherlock’s breakfast (brunch? lunch? mid-afternoon snack) in front of him. “I, uh, pretty much came as soon as I was inside you. And, of course,” he adds hastily. “I’ve had more experience than you.”

Sherlock catches his hand, and weaves their fingers together. “Are you saying I need more practice?” he asks softly.

John grins. “Lots,” he says, leaning in for a kiss. “Lots and lots and lots.”

“Oh lord!” a weary voice sighs from the kitchen doorway. “Not you two as well. Have they started putting something in the water?”

It’s Mycroft - umbrella in one hand, and a rope-handled carrier bag from ‘Bennett’s of Chipping Camden’ dangling from the other. Sherlock automatically pulls his hand away from John’s, then realizing it’s too late and that Mycroft will already have seen, grabs it again defiantly, and tangles their fingers together once more.

“I’m sure you’d know if they were, Mycroft,” John says amiably. “Coffee?”

“Thank you, but no, can’t stop. Awfully busy with the Middle East at the moment … not that you need to know about that. I just dropped in to pass on some information to my brother that Inspector Lestrade was very eager he should have when I spoke to him earlier.”

Sherlock regards him suspiciously. “Lestrade knows where to find me. Why didn’t he come himself?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “He’s not free. Apparently. Had to see a barber for an emergency haircut in preparation for taking a certain pathology assistant of your acquaintance out to dinner.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you were slumming it with a mere Detective Inspector,” Sherlock objects.

Mycroft gives him a superior, enigmatic smile in reply. “Tying up loose ends, Sherlock - tying up loose ends. Suffice it to say, our friend Woodley is to be detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure for a very long time. As will a large number of his unsavoury friends and competitors.”

“What about Hatch?” John asks.

“Oh, I’m sure Mr Hatch will also spend a sizeable portion of the next decade breaking rocks,” Mycroft tells him, “or sewing mailbags - or whatever it is they occupy convicts with these days. For which he should be profoundly grateful, in my book. Trying to topple one’s gangland boss by planting evidence of kidnap and murder at his family home is rarely a guarantee of a long and healthy life out in the world at large, after all.”

“So, _that’s_ what he was up to!” John cries.

Mycroft sniffs. “Surely it was obvious?”

“Blindingly,” Sherlock retorts. “Well, thank you for stopping by, Mycroft. We won’t keep you.”

“Have no fear,” Mycroft replies. “I have no wish to prolong this visit. I’ve already had to tolerate one besotted couple making googly eyes at one another today.” He walks over and sets the Bennett’s bag in front of John. “They wanted the two of you to have this.”

Reaching inside the bag, John draws out a bottle of red wine which he immediately passes to Sherlock. The label reads ‘1988: Chateau Mouton-Rothschild. Paulliac’.

“Hints of coffee, blackcurrant, spices and sweet oak,” Mycroft says wistfully. “Not quite sublime, but nonetheless, a superb wine. Wasted on you, of course.”

“It looks expensive,” John murmurs.

“You have no idea,” Mycroft confirms.

“Who do we know who’d give us a wine good enough to make your brother drool?” John asks Sherlock. “Who do we know who could _afford_ a wine like that?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Mycroft?”

“Bill - Sir William, I mean. He was very grateful for the return of his writing box, and his missing photograph.”

(His writing box? His photo? How-?) Sherlock looks sharply at John.

“Mrs Hudson was so upset about Molly,” John explains, scratching at his head and pulling an apologetic face. “I thought giving her something to do would take her mind off it, so I got her to take it to a courier, along with a little note of explanation for Sir William. That was all right, wasn’t it?”

“And did your little note mention that Hodder would like to see him again, by any chance?”

John squeezes his eyes shut and nods guiltily.

“It’s all right, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, when Sherlock lets out a little growl of exasperation. “Bill was delighted to receive it. So delighted, in fact, that he caught the first train up to town this morning, took a cab to Epsom and by lunchtime, he and Hodder were in my office, singing your praises and begging me to deliver their gift.”

“See?” John says, with a hopeful, pleading glance at Sherlock’s direction. “A happy ending!”

“Indeed,” Mycroft nods. “So you see, Sherlock - there’s no need for you to scold John.”

John sees Mycroft to the door. Sherlock follows and, as John shuts the door again, he folds arms around him from behind and murmurs into his ear. “Is that why you did it, John? To be scolded? Would you _like_ to be scolded?”

“I’m sure I would,” John replies, twisting around in Sherlock’s embrace. “And I’ll look forward to you doing it again soon, but right now, I’d like you to kiss me.”

“My pleasure,” Sherlock says, and takes his face between his hands.

Their lips touch, softly as first, because Sherlock wants it to be sweet, and gentle, but before long he’s putting everything he has into it, and kissing John as if his life depended on it.

John’s eyes are gratifyingly dazed when Sherlock finally pulls back, and he smiles drunkenly. “I love you.”

Sherlock nods. “Yes.”

“You know,” John says, jabbing him in the chest with a finger. “ _this_ would be an ideal time for you to say it back to me.”

Suppressing a smile, Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”

John glowers at him. “Because you do!” he cries hotly, then a shadow passes over his face. “Don’t you?”

Sherlock laughs. “You’ve had more than enough evidence in the past two days to make an intelligent deduction, John. Why don’t you try working it out?”

  
_FIN_   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it. Many thanks to all of you who read, and commented. You kept me going and I doubt I could have done it without you.
> 
> Oodles of thanks too to my wonderful beta [verilyvexed](http://verilyvexed.tumblr.com/) for nit-picking and hand-holding, as well as for the lovely artwork for Chapter 8.
> 
>  

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Working It Out Cover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/973437) by [consultingpiskies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingpiskies/pseuds/consultingpiskies)




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